still struggling with depression. sleeping all of the time, losing myself in a book when I’m awake and not at a rehearsal. doctor asks if it is possible that I am hiding or attempting to escape from something with sleep and books. being awake, watching the time slip by. that’s what I’m scared of, but I wake or look up and it slaps me in the face that I’m real, and that life is real, and that I am 22 and I am only a semester away from my music degree but I don’t have it yet and I won’t for a long time. That I am not independent, that I am a long way from it. That my demons still somewhat control me. I feel weak under pressures that seem to make other people strong.
Watching my friends graduate and get married is thrilling, and I’m happy for them, but I also feel like something of a runt. When will I have my shit together? When will I be able to make it through a day filled with work without naps? Without indulgence in my disease?
But heavy questions sit on my mind. Do I want to have biological children? Due to my alcoholism and bipolar disorder, probably not. I’ve thought about getting my tubes tied, but it’s too early for me to do something with threatening permanence. Would I be a fit parent anyway? I have never even held a baby. Do I have anything to offer a child? Adoption seems the only path, and a beautiful one, but is there discrimination in the process against people like us? Fucking probably. Queer people who are perfect on paper have a very difficult time of it. I feel the piece of paper that has to be taped together at odd angles, filled out in all colors of ink. Scribbles on the back.
I live in what used to be the capital of the Confederacy. Things move slowly here, although we are technically a blue state. Things like protesting mandatory trans-vaginal ultrasounds of rape survivors seeking life-saving abortions get you thrown in jail. Not kidding.
Can you tell how liberal I am because oops I might have sneezed my liberal all over my blog, sorry not sorry
Again, I state my age: 22. Child worries are preludes to glimmers in my eye. But I have to think these questions at some point. No one can answer motherhood for you. Unless you get oops pregnant, which I am too broke, young, and crazy to do. Use protection.
“They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.”
My Shakespeare professor shared that with my class, back when I was double-majoring in classical music (performance) and English. I was manic, then. And then I was depressed. And then I finally sought treatment for what I thought was depression. When the antidepressants made my mood swing the other way, I signed up for another 20 credits. And then I got depressed again. Such is my artsy fartsy academic career, on pause for now.
I used to get As in my 400-levels and the two graduate-level courses I took when I was 18/19. Then I got older, and I stayed in 400s and 500s, but my brain seemed to quit on me with more frequency and intensity. Maybe it was all the drinking mixing with life as a bipolar medicine guinea pig topped with full time school.
I used to have an academic scholarship. At one point in my (first) senior year, I tried to leave and not come back. I had my first hospital stay. And then I didn’t have my scholarship anymore.
That was a swell thing you did, Commonwealth of Virginia. Super swell.
At least the next time I had a mixed episode, it was over the 4th of July. Just a lot of missed rehearsals. Probably the best time of year to be stuck in an air-conditioned ward.
There was a 60 year old man who hit on me openly in that ward. I reported it to the nurses and did what they said: hang out in a different room from him, sit apart from him, move if he sits with you. I did all that. One day I was waiting to take a shower, and he started talking to me. It was just us in the hallway. I didn’t want to lose my place in line, so I dealt with it. Later, my doctor accused me of being promiscuous.
She wasn’t even a doctor. She was an NP who didn’t correct me when I called her “dr” every day. Even though I had the tremor of an alcoholic (because I was a fucking alcoholic, I drank port in the mornings — wtf, me?), she continued to lecture me about smoking.
Chain smoking led me to call someone to drive me to the hospital so I wouldn’t jump off of my balcony.
I have since quit, but obviously alcohol and undiagnosed bipolar disorder were the larger demons. Everyone in that psych ward smoked.
Again, frumpy bitch.
If you are actually reading this, I applaud you. Allow me to be your cheerleader for a moment. But I’ve grown bitter and mean throughout these rambles. So just picture your meanest uncle or grandpa in a cheering outfit and have a laugh.
I’ve been wearing less makeup lately. A post on that soon. Light-hearted.
I have an Instagram now. @parthamurvis
neeeeed to go release some tension now, time for yoga and a long walk. sorry for my word vomit. thanks for the place to do so.