Hollow

Whole. Hollow. Hollowed out like a dead tree in the middle of a lush forest. There is not enough food in the world to feed it. No amount of concrete or brick dust can fill it. Never enough drugs or booze to make me forget. No amount of jewels or shiny baubles can make it pretty again.
This gaping whole where my soul should be. Where my center of gravity should be.This whole can never be filled by gifts or words. It can never be filled by promises or lies. I am starving. Ravenous. I need to fill the hollowness and I am unable to. I am unable to be completely whole no matter what I do or say. My mental illness has slowly eaten away at me. Left like a moth bitten fabric blowing in the breeze. Some wholes are tiny and some are big enough to poke your fingers through. I tried to patch them but they just keep tearing at the seams. Like trying to cover your black eye with bad makeup. Still I wish that my scars were on the outside rather than inside my mind. That way it would be a visible representation of my mental illness. No one would wonder how I can look normal and perfectly fine and not be. I just want to scream "Don't you see my scars? Can't you see the wholes inside me? Can't you see the hollowness?"
It frustrates them because they do not understand and it frustrates me because I can not make them. My hollowness can only be filled by working on myself. By believing in myself and believing that I am important and worthy. Day after day.
I wish people could see my mental illness. My life would be so much easier if everyone would be able to see me as I really am. A scarred, empty vessel, hollow log, broken glass, burnt paper, grasping at smoke, ashes in the wind mental case. Instead I look normal and therefore if I just try a little bit harder I can do things like everyone else. I can be like everyone else. Because I look fine then I must be fine. Because I look healthy then I must be healthy. Looks can be deceiving  I am a good person. A great mom. A loyal friend, but I am not fine, healthy, or normal. I can accept that but can others? Always the fight between seeing is believing and believing in things that you can not see. It would be easier for me to be normal. It would be easier for me to be fine. It would be easier for me to be mentally healthy, but I am not. Nothing about me is easy and neither is my life. I can change my appearance, my hair styles, my clothing. I can change my routines, my sleeping habits, my expressions. What I can not change is the the fact I live every day tethered to my mental illness. I can not change into normal. It doesn't work that way. I am trying my hardest to be what I am supposed to be. I am trying to fill the hollowness inside of me. It takes time and patience. It takes tears, prayers, and practice. It takes what ever else I throw at it to plug the wound , to fill this sink whole that is seeping down into the earth. Because I want so desperately to be whole. I wont be normal. Not ever, but I can be a better me. I can be less hollow. I only hope that it is enough.
                                          Neurotic Nelly

My Stained Life

Wash, Rinse, Dry, Repeat.

Life is like a load of our favorite laundry. We spend an enormous amount of time washing it. We sort it by colors and fabric type. We sort it by underwear and socks, towels and sheets, jeans and shirts. Some of it has to be hand washed and fluff dried. Most of it we throw in the machine without a second thought and are surprised when we come out with pink socks. Then it's off to the dryer. Too hot and the sweaters will shrink. Too cool and it will covered in mildew and be damp.  Then it is folding time and putting it in the proper places. We spend our time trying to wash away the dirt and stains. Some of us wash and clean. Some of us would rather air out their dirty laundry to others. Some of us are color coordinated and some of us are color blind. In which case pink socks are not a big deal.
As my husband will tell you, I hate doing laundry. I feel like I am being sent down to the cave like basement to be punished by toiling away all of my time to wash, rinse, dry, and repeat.

Laundry is necessary. We all have to do it or we would look dirty and smell badly. Not really what most people strive to achieve. If life is like laundry then mentally ill people are forever in the laundry room. We deem ourselves dirty and stained. We are constantly trying to wash it away. We just want to be cleansed. We scrub the stains till our hands crack and bleed. They never come out despite the hours of elbow grease and specail soaps we apply. We just can't get the desired effect. It is time consuming and upsetting to work and work and never achieve what we are certain one more good scrub could eradicate.  I have decided that too much of my time is wasted by trying to scrub and wash away my mental illness. It is what it is. I want to jump in the mud puddles and play in the dirt. I don't really care if my clothes get dirty. I don't care if I have to wear the dreaded pink sock. I don't care if you see my stains. Getting dirty is a life well lived. It means you didn't stand on the side lines watching everyone else play jacks and marbles. It means you made mud pies and built sand castles. It means you allowed yourself to have fun. To live life. I am not saying I never need to do laundry again, but I'll wash it when my clothes are caked in the glorious aftermaths of  having a really fun and hard working day. I will wash them when I am good and ready. I will not bother to try to erase the stains I have been given. They are part of me and make me who I am. They are a timeline of how hard I participated in my own life, and proof that I was active. It is my story written by one stain at a time. The grass stains are from me crawling until I could stand. The mud stains are from me falling and getting back up. The  blood stains are from the scrapes I got when I forgot to be careful and had to learn my lesson the hard way. The food stains are from good meals shared with family and friends. The paint stains are from reinventing and rebuilding my life, which is always under construction. I will wear this garment until it is  worn and thread bare. I will dot it until it is marbled with the stains of my well lived life.I will stretch it out until it becomes ill fitting and uneven. And then and only then will I wash, rinse, dry, and repeat.
                         Neurotic Nelly