I wake in the dark. I can't sleep past 5 am. This is ok, because I am not forced to wake up; I just do. But later in the day my early rising comes back to bite me, because I am very tired. But I can't sleep in the daytime, no matter how badly I want to. Lately I have not slept through the night. I wake up every hour or so. From what I know about sleep, this does not allow me to have a full cycle of REM sleep. This can't be good for my head. I have cut way back on caffeine, and today for the first day I don't have a headache.
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
truth
When I read my post of last evening I am at first repelled. It seems self-pitying and sentimental. But rather than delete it, I wait. I sleep and dream of meeting Miles Davis. And then, this morning, re-reading it, I realize that it is the truth, and while one could read it as self pity, it is my story. There is no point, for me, in pretending it is any different.
A few weeks ago I was talking to Bao about blogging, and I said that I was afraid my blog might seem like a self-indulgent whine. But now, I think, it is the truth. I try to be objective, to put the facts out. By acknowledging the truth of things, I can understand more. In contrast, this picture is not truth; it is a manipulation of the truth. The real tree is not gold. The sky above it is blue, not pink.
A few weeks ago I was talking to Bao about blogging, and I said that I was afraid my blog might seem like a self-indulgent whine. But now, I think, it is the truth. I try to be objective, to put the facts out. By acknowledging the truth of things, I can understand more. In contrast, this picture is not truth; it is a manipulation of the truth. The real tree is not gold. The sky above it is blue, not pink.
Monday, February 07, 2005
History
The day that my father left our family it was grey and raining. I think it was March, but I don't remember clearly. And my mother is dead, so I can't ask her. But maybe my brother or sister remembers. But aside from that omission, I remember that day like one remembers a very bad dream, in vivid detail.
In the provincial Pennsylvania town where I grew up, no one had divorced parents. The parents might be alcoholics; they might beat their children; their children might sell methamphetamine to neighborhood kids, but the parents stayed married. Only my friend Sue's parents were divorced, but they had been since before they came to that town, and her mother was ignored by the other parents, as if she didn't exist, in her modest house that was like all the others.
Later, Sue, who had a powerful voice, who was a promising musician, became a drug addict and then severely anorexic. I hope she is ok now. I don't know. When I went away to college, I left that place, and almost all the people, behind, fleeing for my life. And after my mother died I did not return there, but for a few times, and then with dread. My memories of it all are too sad, too anguished, for their to be any happy returns.
After my father left, my mother too became a pariah. It was bad enough that she had a college education and was Jewish: she already was an oddball. Now she was a divorcée. Some of my friends were no longer permitted to come to our house, as association with the likes of our family might taint them. But many of my friends loved my mother, and sometimes I would come home to find Cristi hanging out in our kitchen, talking to Mom and smoking, because that's what my mother did. When she wasn't crippled by depression she was a great talker, charming and vivacious and smart, and she smoked like a chimney.
So from that point on, everything changed. I was afraid to go to school because I did not want to tell anyone what happened. Because if I opened my mouth to speak, no words would come out and I would fall apart. I begged my mother to let me stay home, but she said no. "You must be strong and not let this change our lives." She, however, could not live by those words, and she fell into a deep depression; I would come home from school to find her lying in the dark on the sofa, the curtains drawn, in mid-afternoon. My father did not give us enough money. No more piano lessons for me; no vacations. I went to school, swam on the swimming team, and worked at whatever jobs I could get. I gave money I earned to my mother to help with the expenses.
I remember staring out the window that day, while my father told us that he was leaving. We all sat at our long dining table, as if we were about to have a meal. The rain dripped onto the broad panes of glass, obscuring the trees and grass outside. All I could see was the tangled web of my mother's numerous houseplants; the window was wide and deep, a bay window, and it was filled with plants, crawling over each other to get the sun. As my father told us he was leaving the rain turned the yard to mud and soaked the brown winter grass.
I realize now that I was already suffering from chronic depression at that point--I had been ever since early childhood--but it got worse. My behavior became more wild and my drug use increased. My mother could not manage being a parent, and she left us to our own devices. My father got married again and started a new family, leaving us behind. I wish that now, as an adult, I were recovered from all of this, that I could simply look back on it and think of it as over and done. But I blame so much on him. My mother would not have gotten sick and died so young if her spirit had not been broken. My family would not have been splintered apart, each of us drifting apart from each other like wounded animals. I would not flee as soon as I was able, first to college, then far away to Chicago for more school. I might be happier; I might have recovered from my depression. I might not feel abandoned.
I am glad that I am able to write this, because it shows that I understand the past, at least in part; but I will never understand what leads a parent to abandon his own children and start over, with no word of explanation. I will never understand why my mother had to die so young and suffer so terribly in the process. But maybe I will understand myself.
In the provincial Pennsylvania town where I grew up, no one had divorced parents. The parents might be alcoholics; they might beat their children; their children might sell methamphetamine to neighborhood kids, but the parents stayed married. Only my friend Sue's parents were divorced, but they had been since before they came to that town, and her mother was ignored by the other parents, as if she didn't exist, in her modest house that was like all the others.
Later, Sue, who had a powerful voice, who was a promising musician, became a drug addict and then severely anorexic. I hope she is ok now. I don't know. When I went away to college, I left that place, and almost all the people, behind, fleeing for my life. And after my mother died I did not return there, but for a few times, and then with dread. My memories of it all are too sad, too anguished, for their to be any happy returns.
After my father left, my mother too became a pariah. It was bad enough that she had a college education and was Jewish: she already was an oddball. Now she was a divorcée. Some of my friends were no longer permitted to come to our house, as association with the likes of our family might taint them. But many of my friends loved my mother, and sometimes I would come home to find Cristi hanging out in our kitchen, talking to Mom and smoking, because that's what my mother did. When she wasn't crippled by depression she was a great talker, charming and vivacious and smart, and she smoked like a chimney.
So from that point on, everything changed. I was afraid to go to school because I did not want to tell anyone what happened. Because if I opened my mouth to speak, no words would come out and I would fall apart. I begged my mother to let me stay home, but she said no. "You must be strong and not let this change our lives." She, however, could not live by those words, and she fell into a deep depression; I would come home from school to find her lying in the dark on the sofa, the curtains drawn, in mid-afternoon. My father did not give us enough money. No more piano lessons for me; no vacations. I went to school, swam on the swimming team, and worked at whatever jobs I could get. I gave money I earned to my mother to help with the expenses.
I remember staring out the window that day, while my father told us that he was leaving. We all sat at our long dining table, as if we were about to have a meal. The rain dripped onto the broad panes of glass, obscuring the trees and grass outside. All I could see was the tangled web of my mother's numerous houseplants; the window was wide and deep, a bay window, and it was filled with plants, crawling over each other to get the sun. As my father told us he was leaving the rain turned the yard to mud and soaked the brown winter grass.
I realize now that I was already suffering from chronic depression at that point--I had been ever since early childhood--but it got worse. My behavior became more wild and my drug use increased. My mother could not manage being a parent, and she left us to our own devices. My father got married again and started a new family, leaving us behind. I wish that now, as an adult, I were recovered from all of this, that I could simply look back on it and think of it as over and done. But I blame so much on him. My mother would not have gotten sick and died so young if her spirit had not been broken. My family would not have been splintered apart, each of us drifting apart from each other like wounded animals. I would not flee as soon as I was able, first to college, then far away to Chicago for more school. I might be happier; I might have recovered from my depression. I might not feel abandoned.
I am glad that I am able to write this, because it shows that I understand the past, at least in part; but I will never understand what leads a parent to abandon his own children and start over, with no word of explanation. I will never understand why my mother had to die so young and suffer so terribly in the process. But maybe I will understand myself.
tangled web of branches
Now that the day's activity is done I feel completely exhausted. I was planning to swim this evening but I will stay home, and swim tomorrow instead. It was hard to teach today, as my patience was thin because I was so tired. I hope that tonight I can relax and sleep, because my head needs it badly. But my body is still adjusting to the new dosage of lamictal, and I am prepared for another restless night.
From THE BOOK OF SALT
And am I but one within a long line of others? Are there wounded trophies who have preceded me? But why ask questions, I tell myself, when you are here with me now. Some men take off their eyeglasses, some lower their eyelids. You lower your voice. Desire humbles us in different ways. Your body comes close, and the scent of lime and bay is all around us. You tilt your head. You kiss my lips, lopsided by a smile. Your breath is warmth spreading across the closed lids of my eyes. Your tongue finds the tips of my lashes, flicking them aside.
(Monique Truong, THE BOOK OF SALT)
(Monique Truong, THE BOOK OF SALT)
crazy guy
On Saturday, crossing the Bowery, there was this crazy guy kneeling in the middle of the intersection at Great Jones Street. He had no shirt on, and he was taking off his pants, and screaming at someone who was far away. I hope that someone got him out of there. Lots of people were watching him but he did not seem to notice.
worry
I don't worry about myself so much. I am fatalistic; I have had more than my share of health issues and other things that might give me worries, but I tend to avoid worrying about myself.
But I worry inordinately about my friends and family. My brother's health scare last week had me almost sick with worry. Reading Bao's post this morning worried me because it seemed ominous, and I could not help it and called him up despite the early hour. It was a relief to talk to him. In any case his poem was really beautiful, and once I stopped worrying I read it again and admired the concise form and the clever use of the image of number seven, which is one of my favorite numbers.
However, today's horoscope is pretty far from the mark:
Dear Jonathan,
Here is your horoscope
for Monday, February 7:
Talk about being on top of the world! You're the happiest person on the planet. There might not be one particular reason, but if there is? Bet it just so happens to involve one special someone.
But I worry inordinately about my friends and family. My brother's health scare last week had me almost sick with worry. Reading Bao's post this morning worried me because it seemed ominous, and I could not help it and called him up despite the early hour. It was a relief to talk to him. In any case his poem was really beautiful, and once I stopped worrying I read it again and admired the concise form and the clever use of the image of number seven, which is one of my favorite numbers.
However, today's horoscope is pretty far from the mark:
Dear Jonathan,
Here is your horoscope
for Monday, February 7:
Talk about being on top of the world! You're the happiest person on the planet. There might not be one particular reason, but if there is? Bet it just so happens to involve one special someone.
monday morning
I was so tired last night, but I could not sleep. The lamictal is messing with me. I feel plugged in now, like electricity is zapping through my system. It is not pleasant.
Sunday, February 06, 2005
side effects
The lamictal, at a higher dosage, is giving me a bad headache. It is also making my eyes much more sensitive to the sun. Even with my sunglasses on, yesterday and today I was totally blinded by the sunlight. Strange.
brain
Concerned with the increased intensity of my bipolar cycling, I reported to my psychiatrist on Friday afternoon. He increased the dosage of my medication, which should even out the state of my mind. But then I am confronted by the recurrent dilemma: if my mood "evens out" and I don't have such frustrating episodes of hypomania and subsequent depression, will my imagination and creative energy even out as well, leaving me a dull replica of my old self? This is the dilemma that I imagine many artists who have bipolar disorder face, and why many choose to forgo medication. That's what I did for a year, but as much as it may have enabled my work, it was dangerous to my well-being. I read a book, TOUCHED BY FIRE, by Dr. Kay Redfield Jamieson (a noted authority who herself bipolar) that addressed this issue, but it didn't help me much, other than to confirm what I just wrote. Hmmm.
Saturday, February 05, 2005
cork tree
Today was an unusually warm day and so the streets of the city were swarming with people. My dosage of lamictal was raised starting today so my head felt a little tingly as I walked around the city. First to the west village then east to the east village and then downtown to "Nolita" which was ridiculous; it has become so fashionable and so there were clones upon clones on the streets. The guys all have stubble and bedhead and wear expensive jeans and the ladies...well I don't really notice. But isn't it strange how everyone wants to look alike? Even in New York.
spotted bark
A tree on a strangely sparse block of Barrow Street. There is a row of four small brick houses, and this tree is in front of the first of the four as you head west toward to water.
steps
As I was walking around the west village yesterday (I was early for my appointment and had some time) I was photographing the interesting details of buildings and plants and snow. I don't usually photograph people. Then I bought a new singing bowl to go with my old one. I wonder what they will sound like together. Later I met Y after he finished work, and we went to MOMA. The huge Cy Twombly that filled a whole wall is one of my favorite paintings of all time.
Friday, February 04, 2005
curve
Earlier today, walking west on Barrow Street to the river, the light was fantastic. The sky shifted colors and textures constantly.
village doorway
I passed this doorway walking back to the subway after seeing my shrink this afternoon. It captured my mood perfectly.
memory/desire
My happiest memories of growing up are centered around the beautiful landscape and the thick forests and small mountains where I felt very free and the sun was warm and the sky blue. Are these memories of how it really was? Or have they become, through the lens of time and imagination, enchanted memories, to make things seem better than they actually were?
Dear Jonathan,
Here is your horoscope
for Friday, February 4:
That exotic new friend who's been casually flirting with you? The one who seems to be saying all the right things at all the right times? It's not an accident. They've done their homework.
This has absolutely no relevance to my current life.
Here is your horoscope
for Friday, February 4:
That exotic new friend who's been casually flirting with you? The one who seems to be saying all the right things at all the right times? It's not an accident. They've done their homework.
This has absolutely no relevance to my current life.
bridge
A few months ago I walked down to Dumbo, just a short distance from my apartment, and found that the park had been all cleaned up and, on that particular day, it was virtually empty. It was cold and windy, and it was so strange to be alone in this setting, with Manhattan (teeming with life) just across the water. It was so quiet you could hear the little waves hitting the rocks along the water's edge. I decided that I would visit here a lot. But most likely it will never be empty like it was that day, and the presence of other people will frighten me, as it sometimes does.
Why is it that as soon as I am awake I feel a cloud settle on my head and shoulders, making me just want to crawl back into bed and sleep and sleep and sleep? The irony is that I can't sleep. My insomnia tortures me.
Why is it that as soon as I am awake I feel a cloud settle on my head and shoulders, making me just want to crawl back into bed and sleep and sleep and sleep? The irony is that I can't sleep. My insomnia tortures me.
Thursday, February 03, 2005
cookies
Y. just went to the gym. I hope he will bring back some cookies. I am hungry, but too lazy to go out. I did just walk Mabel, but the problem is that then I have to be sociable, and I am not in the mood.
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