Hey hey, I'm a horse.
Blog exploring a world of manic highs, (not so much) depressive lows, the joy of hypomania, and the dead buzz of the medications to quell it.
Art, cartooning, comics and dissociative personalities.
Examinations are over, just little over 3 months, and yet they seem so far away. Like I never was a student.
In this state of liminality, where I am not a student, nor an income worker, not a child, yet not an adult, it’s easy for the lack of structure and the uncertainty of the future to swirl your head around. I take comfort in the fact that this liminality and lack of structure is a milestone for many of my age. In fact it is the milestone of the feeling, the unfeeling go around their lives in a haze, their ‘ah heck’ attitudes. Hail to the gut-wrenching feeling, the sufferers and the weary.
As I slowly change my medicine from Epilium to Lamictal to counter the weight problem, the Saviour in marble just won’t leave my mind. Her beaauty and suffering and silent scream.
I’ve been lucid enough to maintain a job that has structure and stability and caring people. Caring of course, in part, because they don’t know I’m a little less like them, and because I, Narrator, am logical and because Rich/Kai, that wonderful wonderful person, does such an amazing job being around people and thriving on constant social interaction.
But when you let someone out for too long, the others get neglected. It’s terribly sad that we need to suppress a person for the collective good for others, but it’s a necessity and a blessing because it allows us to live. Live? Live? I think we’re all living. We’re definitely functioning, I can hear the cerebral fluid sloshing around in my head when I tilt it side to side.
Richard Chua, you make an amazing person.
I’m going to step aside now. I’m leaving, I’m going, because I need to let someone take control of the squishy squashy the swirling cerebral fluid cushions.
I’ll kiss your feet, I worship you, don’t leave me
(Don’t do this to me, you know I can’t do this)
My Saviour, my Passion and Christ, my tormenter and saviour
(Oh god! Help me, Padre!)
How are you speaking, Niña? I distinctly remember you don’t have a mouth.
(I’m speaking because you’re putting words into my mouth)
I’m putting words in your mouth?
(Yes! Stop! Stop it! I can’t take it! Your tormented sick mind is now my mind.)
But you’re my tormented, sick mind
(I am, I am!)
Oh my Passion and Hope, my saviour, I’ll wash your feet with my hair if need be, don’t leave me!
(What can I do? What can I do? I can’t help you!)
My tormenter and saviour, I love you, never leave me!
(*digs fingers into midriff*)
Still alive, not manic
may be dead
I’ll take my index finger and thumb and pincer grip the sides of my jaw.
I’ll squeeze so hard my jaw bone pops out.
I’ll dig my right index finger into my right eye socket,
"And if thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee”
I’ll drag my face across the tarmac
(and it’ll make slooshing sounds)
I’ll kneel on nails.
I’ll break my shins.
I’ll press rosebushes into my breast.
I’ll do this all inside my head,
And for some reason,
I’ll be all right.
Blood, sweat, and ink.
Tomorrow I take my first paper for the A levels. For everyone out there who’s never been taken under the jolly ol’ British’s wing, or doesn’t actually live there, it’s a standardized major examination that is taken with incredulous seriousness in Singapore.
I am anxious yeah, of course I am - I mean, who wouldn’t be? The anxiety isn’t so bad as it was before, as in like the times before other major standardized tests. It was terrible. I’d heave sick out of my stomach every 15 minutes out of psychological terror. I hallucinated the nights before and trembled in the examination hall.
Looking at myself now with just white moths flitting around my stomach, I don’t know if it’s medication, complacency, or the result of 2 hard years of blood, sweat, and ink.
I’ve worked harder these two years in junior college (or pre-university, if you’d like) because I know that the route is short and narrow in test-crazy Singapore. Sir Ken Robinson’s ‘education revolution’ doesn’t seem to have hit here. I know that the minute I landed into a JC education, I was going to have to suck it up and not get my As (as I used to do) on wit and luck. I slavishly, I embarrassingly admit, I slavishly, slogged for these two years.
It’s time to prove it to myself.
I know my greatest enemy is all in my mind. My anxiety. The black worms in my gut, the voices in my head and the hissing of the walls.
I’ll overcome them - I want to to, I know I can. I have the blood, sweat and ink behind me to prove it. They were my sword and shield. I love the academic world, and here I am, at its gates, and they want me to prove myself before I can proceed onwards. I’ve got blood, sweat, and ink dripping off me.
C’mon man, I know you can do it. If you’ve staved off jumping off the highest cliffs in the world, and drowning the lowest abyss of the deep, you can surely get over a few papers made by a couple of blokes in merry ol’ Cambridge.
Just remember, whenever you’re stuck, look behind you.
The answers are in the blood, sweat, and ink. Don’t forget that Oxford comma.
I can’t seem to close them.
It is amazing how tiny things can ignite huge sparks, enveloping waves, just folds and folds of chemical feeling. I can’t tell if the feeling’s physical or emotional any more.
It didn’t use to be like this, it wasn’t like this before the big reveal. Being aware, being aware of the spiders crawling up your gut and your teeth falling out of your gums, the black bile leaking out from under my eyelids, my fingernails yellowing and falling from my arthritis-ridden finger joints.
I used to suffer from mental illness in blissful ignorance.
It’s like gashing your leg without knowing - funny how you feel the pain but aren’t aware of it, funny, funny huh?
You don’t feel the pain till you see the blood - that’s how it is for some people, for over a decade I never fathomed the possibility of being mentally ill, so I suffered in a passionate and blissful pain.
Now daily I am aware, aware of the sinking feeling, or aware of my palms sweating, I feel my pupils dilate and my heart speeding up. I am aware of the lopsided grin that spreads across one half of my face like a stroke victim. I. Feel. My. Heart. Kicking. My. Sternum.
I can’t continue, I can feel my brain frothing pink froth at its diseased mouth and like a syphilis infection, the fever’s shutting me down slowly.
I know it’s ridiculous.
I know it’s ridiculous, but I don’t want to go to school tomorrow.
I love going to school, I love love love love the people there and the lessons and the studying and everything.
I like the structure and schedule and rules and boundaries that make me feel safe and cozy.
But sometimes, like tomorrow, where there is a “workshop” where everyone is free an’ easy instead of being together as a “class”, I get so upset and nervy, becaause I know everyone will ball int their little cliques in which I will not be a part of. They’ll leave me, out, and they’ll make a show of it.
I know it’s ridiculous. I know that because sometimes I mind and sometimes I don’t mind.
Tonight I mind.
I don’t like being labelled as part of a group and I guess that has its repercussions. Like a scarlet letter of indistinguishable etymological origin, on some days I wear that badge with a fierce pride, and some days it leaves me with an inexorable anguish, burning my breast and cheek.
Doesn’t help that I have assholes getting smart with me. Unbelievable wankers.
I’ll go to school tomorrow because I like to. I don’t want to fallow at home. If anything, the pain of being excluded will distract me from the pain of insanity and whooping, gleeful misery.
I don’t want to be a pain in anyone’s ass by being a pain in my own arse.