I sit on my desk ready for a brand new day. Everything is set up so I make my way to the kitchen because my body begs for coffee. I perform the obligatory small talk with my co-workers asking how their weekend went. I return to my cubicle sighing of the little privacy I enjoy, looking around documents, emails, and telling to myself, “Welcome to corporate America” “The American Dream.” My thoughts come and go as usual, mostly on my children…they can be a handful and have completely drained my energy. Even though my situation it is not all pleasant, my optimistic self knows I’m going to survive. I sip on my coffee waiting for the caffeine effect to kick in. Certain feelings of desolation and emptiness occur daily and of course it’s a consequence of my own struggles. And yet, it is not that I feel anxious for. The voices seem to disappear for good.
I do not enjoy my illness. It gets on my blood, nerves, brain, etc…when individuals romanticize depression and other mood disorders because it means “You’re different” I think in a way, it ushers the concept of why we’ve fucked up so many times and why the smell of death it’s so near and close. I have accepted my condition, but it doesn’t mean I’m jumping up and down about it. Perhaps I need more coffee, my hands are shaking again, the little spiders crawl on my skin while my sight becomes blurry, I’m more agitated than ever because the voices are no longer with me. What the fuck am I writing here?.
I can only hear the echo of my co-workers typing away emails, on the phone with parents anxiously waiting to enroll their kids for home-schooling services, etc…I ought to pay more scrutiny on my work task since I’ll be sitting here for the next 6 hours or so. But I can’t, I keep dwelling why the voices have abandoned me. You see, there is nothing lovable about mental illness, but when you find comfort on the manifestation of certain symptoms, anxiety hurts like hell. Voices are a token of my aching reality. It is more powerful than mediation because they generate my imagination and usually drive me to keep working and get up every single day.
It’s painful at the same time. Family should be my priority in life, and they are of course, but humans are so fallible and ungrateful, I can’t stand it. I don’t practice selfishness well either, so the voices are the medium to a place where I can discharge my own self.
I don’t have any desire to relinquish my most precious token that fuels life to the unconventionality of choices if that represents being different. I cannot write sensible words and ideas because that is not how I feel right now. It’s a desperate situation; “make sure you let your pdoc know” yes, I do understand it is important to let her know in case she decides to write down a prescription for the magic potion #9, that calls upon the forces of nature to bring my precious voices back.
The working memory digit span is short. I must collect myself and pretend again. “This is an office job” my speed and visual motor integration seem fine, I’ve taken my medicine today. There must be something wrong with my perceptual reasoning because of the fruit salad of essay I’m writing today. I’ve learned the earnest way to let practice the art of writing is let your thoughts flow since they are not rules for writing. You write every day period. My discussion is about the voices. It’s a positive part of my life, they have no physical source, they’re just occur like telepathy. It is not like humming a song, or having a verbal conversation to yourself, the voices have opinions of their own, they can be malicious sometimes, yes, but I’m learning to differentiate the good voices from the bad ones. In another terms, I feel more akin to my own humanity and shouldn’t be consider part of the manic depression or psychotic experience. Bear with me that I’m not trying to explain the source, I am just merely hurt by their cease to exist at least transitory. I stare on the computer screen once again. silent. Another emails pops up. Maybe a tune or two can initiate some healing.