~There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed. -Ernest Hemingway~

My escapism comes in many forms- Most have to do with CREATING; when I create to escape I can put my whole focus into forming my desired object. Whether it’s a day dream, an art project or a poem, I can leave everything behind. I don’t have to think about reality (that, my psychology students, is what shrinks refer to as 'hyperfocus'). Of course if I`m feeling especially lazy my escapism results in watching The Wire for 8 straight hours, or reading the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy in a week. Small detail worth noting: When I am done a series (TV, movie or book) I actually go through a depression because I am mourning the loss of the characters and the world they existed in. I’m a geek. I know.

Before I matured into adulthood, escapism was a defense mechanism which I didn’t begrudge myself. I did what I had to too survive. But as I grew up, I realized that most of my escapist activities weren’t fair to the ones I loved if it meant distancing myself. So for example, early in our marriage, when I would get too overwhelmed with some sort of hardship, my husband would watch as I vacated reality. As someone who has some pretty intense abandonment issues, this was akin to torture for him. We eventually resolved this issue, but my first instinct to adversity is to mentally turtle, and it`s still something I struggle with and will for the rest of my life. I do realize that CREATING something can be therapeutic, but if it takes me away from my loved ones and my responsibilities then it can be harmful. I need to participate in life. My loved ones need me to participate with them.

One of my favorite forms of escapism is writing. I started writing when I was 5. I don't know how I was writing that early. I remember being 3 or 4, lying on the living room floor with my mom, the newspaper stretched under us, and I watched her read the tiny little news print. I recall looking at the letters and they looked to me like minute little lines and circles. I remember marveling at how one could gain any information from such small boring little squiggles. The next memory I have of words was when I was 5, where I was suddenly writing. I obviously knew my alphabet and I remember writing stories in my little note books (you know the ones with the lines on the bottom and blank page for drawing on the top). I know I didn’t know how to read yet (that came in when I was 6) But I knew what I wanted to say and sounded out the words I wanted to write. When I look back at those stories (thanks mom for keeping those for me) if I read the letters purely phonetically I can sort of follow along with the narrative, but I remember at the time, being completely absorbed in my land of make believe.

I filled journal after journal as a teenager. My fantasies were so real I thought I should write some of them down. You know, make a fortune as a famous writer. So I started many novels and screen plays, I was quite the prodigy. But of course as any true ADHDer can tell you, none of these made it past the third chapter or the first act. I wrote A LOT of bad poetry (I also wrote an occasional good poem, which I probably will post on here every once in a while) I journaled my life and how I was feeling. Sometimes it’s interesting to go back and read some of those teenage angsty ramblings… Most of the time it is just horrifying to see how immature and self-absorbed I was… I mean I am still as self-absorbed as one can be when one is a stay at home mother to two toddlers and a baby.

But when I met my husband, for some reason my writing stopped. It’s like my dialogue had dried up. Rather, I know my dialogue was then directed at him. Poor man. I always say to him (rather accusingly and a bit piteously) "YOU married ME". Even though my oral spewing was then directed at him I know that I was editing what I had to say… Despite what you`ve been told, you can’t tell your soul mate every single thought that enters your brain. The endless nonsensical chatter that spins through my brain would make Andrew go crazy. Despite his passionate love for me, he would have to have me committed for my own good(and his).....(ok, mostly just his).

So writing as an escapist medium, ceased to exist. I watched a Sylvia Plath movie once and there was a quote that went something like this `once a woman gets married or turns 30, she stops writing.` I thought this was an actual quote so I googled researched for hours trying to find this Sylvia Plath quote. I couldn’t find it, so now I actually attribute that quote to Gwenyth Paltrow, or rather the writers of that movie. But I sort of believed it was true. Most of what teenagers (mostly of the female variety) anguishly write about is being crossed in love. So therefore when you find the ever elusive LOVE, you ceased to be anguishly inspired. I know a lot of people write about being happy. But I was too busy BEING happy(due to the love) for the first time in my life to actually write about, you know… being happy.

Recently, in the last few months, as my thoughts seemed to start spiraling, I started searching for an appropriate outlet. I figured banging my head against the wall or tearing my hair out wasn’t really setting a good example for my children. So once the meds kicked in and I began to see things straight I was inspired to start writing.

So here I am.

Mentally (ch)ILL

So. I have a mental illness... Well actually several (the doctors say). But despite that, I think I am a pretty chill person. I know that seems like an oxymoron. But all in all, I am relatively laid back. I know that I have my moments of course, but I do tend to take most things in stride (I wonder where that phrase "in stride" came from? I love etymology... research for another day... Because if there is one thing I am good at, its googling I mean researching. Did I mention I have ADHD?)

As I was saying before I was interrupted... I think my years of mental instability have lead me to cope in a way that I can only describe as "powering down" This makes it appear that I am chill, and for all intents and purposes, I am CHILL….. because I no longer exist in reality. My mind takes a vacation. It is escapism. I suffer from escapism.

I am a MASTER escapist. I have my PHD in Good Bye.

When I was young my parents were often told "She is always off in the clouds somewhere" It’s how I coped with life. My sensitivities were continuously being chaffed raw. Life always seemed to hurt. Something always seemed to make me ponder the "Why?" of life. The pondering always led me down somewhat darkly negative paths. I remember feelings of melancholy ever since I was 5.

5 year olds have SO much to be depressed about. I wish there was a sarcasm font.

I remember being at the pool. And I saw a boy with no arms. It looked like he was born without them. I laid in the water for 3 hours, listless. My family splashed around me, playing, laughing, trying to engage me. I just laid there floating, weightless, and feeling heaviness all at the same time. Drowning with the sorrow that I felt the boy must be suffering from. I mean, he had to have his dad carry him through water, because he couldn’t balance himself while walking, let alone swim. People stared at him. What was life like to be like him? He looked happy, he laughed. But I felt sad. I remember anguishing about it for days. I am sure he was better adjusted to his disability than I was, and I had never even met him... I just observed him for an afternoon trying to figure out "WHY?" and "WHY NOT ME?" Why was he born without arms, and I was born with arms? It wasn't FAIR for him. It ravaged my sensitivities, and the image of him being carried around, to this day, still sets my mood dial on sad.

So that is one of my earliest memories of feelings of depression. Stuff happened in my childhood that probably had a large effect on my emotional state (said STUFF is a drama that can’t really be re-enacted because it involves others besides me, and I will withhold it for the sake of the other players involved). But I truly believe I was born with an extra coating of sensitivity. It is a sticky shellac that ends up attracting more flaws than your standard satin finish. The typical breeze of dusty hurts that normally settle on most people, can be wiped off... Those same dust particles of hurt stick to me and eventually became part of the marred veneer.

So how does one who was born sensitive AND born into a dusty whirlwind, cope? They retreat inside themselves. I have a vivid imagination. When I was young I lived much of my day in alternate realities.  I spent hours day dreaming. One friend, in adulthood, shared her first impressions of me as a youth. She said I had a spaced out, drugged expression. My eyes were always glazed over. I never looked present. Because I wasn’t.

I remember being in confrontations or long drawn out lectures. I could nod along, keep my eyes alert and yet be in another reality. I would have no IDEA what the person was saying to me, but even then I became adept at returning non-committal responses to make it appear that I was following along. It’s almost like I could split my brain in two. One part was operating my outward functions; the other part(the one in charge of my sanity) had kidnapped my consciousness and held it ransom.

As a preteen and teenager I was SO boy crazy. I had numerous crushes, but even though I was so hungry for love, I had such a good fantasy world I never really felt the urge to pursue a real life romance. At the time I felt I was a huge sucker for unrequited love… Why did no boy ever notice me? (It could have been that my awkward phase lasted from 8-17)(it could have also been that I never once talked to a boy I liked) But despite the distress I felt in not having boyfriends, I felt somewhat satisfied in my romantic fantasy life. Now, I actually feel somewhat grateful that because of that pseudo satisfaction, I never actively pursued boys, and therefore never got into any trouble.

Sometimes I remember my fantasies from the past better than I remember the past. Or, I should say, I remember feeling the safety of the fantasies better than the feelings I experienced due to real life. My real life was numb. My fantasies were so alive.

Bucket List

I have a bucket list. Do you?

There is no hard copy; I don't have it written down... Although I think it would be a good exercise to do so.

This blog is on my bucket list and is a form of a bucket list. I will record my dreams and hopes, my thoughts. I think Bucket Lists are important as all goals and dreams are, and I think they are incredibly indicative of a person, and can be used as an in-depth analysis of said person. So you can go ahead and analyze me. Trust me you (if you are actually out there) can’t analyze me more than I already do, so get on the train! Next stop crazy tooooooown!

I don’t have any idea of what I want this blog to actually look like. I think I just need a writing space. Something that isn’t related to anything OUTSIDE of me. Just me. My psyche in all its glory (gory I know).