Crop Circles in the Carpet...

They are the whispers traveling on the breeze. The haunting of the mind. The crop circles in the carpet. Things heard and seen that aren't really there. Askew perspectives, false perceptions, misguided misconceptions.

It really is no surprise I am the way I am. I can trace back the mental illness in my family over years, decades, and in some cases centuries. There is poison that runs through this family tree. A necrosis of the nerves. Voices of the past mix with our voices of the present and we are much the same. Most of us have not spoken publicly about the terror that goes through our minds. Many have never spoken about it at all. We are strong people and strong people don't talk about such things. Strong people don't admit that they too, have weakness. Strong people don't talk about mental illness let alone accept that they have one. At least not in my family, at least until  recently in the last twenty years. Before then, it was only discussed in hushed whispers followed by haunted stares and only if someone was put in the asylum. Which, not surprisingly, some were.

My great great grandmother seemed by all descriptions to have suffered from OCD. As did her daughter (my great grandmother), and my grandmother, as well as my uncle. And then there is me and quite possibly my two children....For us, it wasn't discussed. In fact, until I started really talking about what I go through and asking my grandmother what she goes through, I do not believe they even knew that what they had was a mental illness. Sadly, they are all gone but my grandmother and my kids. The conversations with my grandma, I believe, have healed us in many ways. We now share more than just the love of grandmother and granddaughter but also the companionship that comes between two sufferers of the same illness. We understand each other on a very deep level. Different symptoms same debilitating disorder. Different severities and yet the same understanding. We have OCD. We are OCD. We reside in its confines and adhere to its anxiety.

I am not sure why we as human beings tend to want to hide the deepest most painful parts of ourselves, nor do I understand what hiding these things are supposed to achieve. Really, not talking about something like mental illness only promotes guilt, shame, loneliness, and despair. And who wants to live like that? Not I. Not my grandmother. No one wants to suffer in silence. Why do we blame ourselves for something we never asked for in the first place? Why are we weighted down by the sheer shame of having a mental illness when mental illnesses are no more than a simple chemical imbalance in the brain? Or a trauma to the cerebral cortex? Why do we carry guilt around for something we are not the cause of nor have we ever been?

I wish that I had known it was okay to talk about these things years before. Maybe I would have been able to have connected more deeply with my uncle and great grandmother. Maybe we could have had the deeper understanding like I share with my grandma. Maybe we would all have had a chance to heal a little more. Maybe...

If there is one thing I have learned in the thirty one years of suffering from a mental illness, it is that keeping silent doesn't make you strong. It makes you lonely. My old family motto was wrong. It was hurtful and it may or may not have contributed to the suicide of my great uncle and the attempts made by mother when I was younger. Strong people don't keep things in. They don't bottle up all the hurt in the world and swallow it down like poison. They let it out. They offer up themselves on a platter and they refuse to hide. They remove the curtain that shelters them from the sometimes cruel judgments of the world and they stand there unprotected and vulnerable. Not because they enjoy being ridiculed or ostracized but because they are tired of living in the shadows. They long to feel whole. To stop living in fear and darkness. To stop hiding like a thief or a criminal. They don't discuss the pit falls of their issues because they enjoy hearing themselves talk. They do it because they know that someone somewhere is hurting, someone feels alone, and they don't have to feel that way, because they are not.

I have to admit that talking and being open is not always received well. It can get touchy. It can be utterly terrifying. It can be exhausting and sometimes extremely off putting to others, but I really can't think of anything more courageous than to put yourself out there and let the chips fall where they may....except doing it doesn't really make you feel very brave. Crazy maybe, but not brave. Then again, not everything you do makes you feel like superman now does it?

Superman isn't always super, he is plain old Clark Kent half of the time. Those of us that share, are more the plain type of superman. Not really all cape and spandex but the more practical, less flashy, type with glasses. Still superman, just less exciting.

Trying to discuss what suffering from something that so many misunderstand and are scared of can be complicated and frustrating. To try and get others to see that we just want to be treated like normal human beings can seem almost impossible. In a world where other human rights violations are front and center it is painful that we are not included. Whether it is willfully or accidental, it still hurts. It still feels like we are being somehow ostracized and forgotten. Where are our rap songs, our protests, our political platforms? It makes me wonder and it kinda saddens me as well.

We are oftentimes left to our own devices when trying to openly discuss our trials and tribulations, the discriminations against us, our media image. We are left with only a few films, books, blogs, and a handful of great organizations trying to educate and shine light on our plight. And the only thing that keeps that going is the sufferers willingness to speak out and be heard and the wonderful people willing to help by continuing to support us.

I have decided to go against my old family motto that has done nothing but keep most of us hurting and muted. I talk openly to my family members. I offer a conversation full of truth and honesty. I make sure to communicate with my children that having a mental illness does not make you doomed or any less valuable as a person. It isn't anything to be ashamed of or frightened of. It isn't dirty or scary or offensive. It simply exists and simply is, and like anything else, it has a right to be talked about. It needs to be talked about. It deserves to be talked about. I think it is most important to be open with them about the fact that I and many others in my family suffer from mental illness because, they are our future and it one day will be up to them to change it. And I want them to change it not with anger and misunderstanding, but with compassion and with truth.

I have chosen to call this piece crop circles in the carpet because as an OCD sufferer I am really weird about shapes in my carpet. I try and make straight lines with the vacuum because I feel like the carpet ins't fresh if I don't. Then inevitably, my oldest will come in desperately to concentrate on something and unconsciously take his pencil eraser and and draw large round circles in it. Circles that I don't see until he has finished what he was doing and goes into the other room.  Circles that remind me he was just there. It has become a sign to me. A sign of presence. A sign that if he was there, I was there too, and so is my whole family history. Our history of struggles, achievements, values, strengths, our truths, our love, and inevitably our history of mental illness. Our sign that we existed, we matter, and we no longer have to suffer in silence. The circles are a sign of us. They were here. He was here. I am here.....They are our footprints of not only what we have been, but also what we have yet to become. Whispers on the breeze, hauntings of the mind, and crop circles in the carpet.

Neurotic Nelly

The Story of US

This is My truth. So this is your truth and this is the story of us.You were always two years older than me. Smarter than me, stronger than me, better than me, you always had it all figured out. And I always looked up to you. I learned from you.You had the prettier darker red hair. The first to get a perm. To drive. To wear makeup. To get boyfriends. The first to become a woman. And I always looked up to you. I learned from you.
We used to dance in circles singing silly songs. Dresses blowing in the breeze and our pony tails coming undone. Secret whispers in each others ears. Jumping in rain puddles and climbing trees. Playing dolls and coloring in coloring books. Sunburns and cold vinegar baths. Eating pickles and drinking the juice till our stomachs turned sour. Dreams, hopes, and secrets we shared. I wish we could go back to before the ground crumbled beneath our feet and we tumbled down to the earth like discarded rag dolls. Before we grew up. Before damage was brought upon us and we faltered. Before you flirted with the demon that plagues you. Before the sporadic phone calls with you taking a hit and talking rapidly hoping for me to judge so you could have a reason to turn away from me. But I never judged. I refuse to judge you. I have made mistakes too even if I never went down the road you did. And I always looked up to you. I learned from you.
I always wonder if my face is yours still. Maybe our eyes are still the same. Maybe today you will answer my phone call or texts. Maybe today I can feel whole again like when we were kids. Like when we sisters and not strangers. I can still see us dressing up in Mom's closet. Trying so hard to be adults. What did we trade being a kid for? Months worrying if you are ok. Are you still clean? Are you hungry? Has the demon come back to finally claim you? One more false promise of a few hours to forget your pain.
I never know where you are so I dream of us when time was kind and we were each other's everything. We were two halves of a whole. Now what am I? Doomed to walk around like I have lost something that I can not find. I have somehow lost you, and I never meant too. I have misplaced you and left you on the dresser like a painted knick-knack somewhere. Or maybe you have misplaced me. Maybe we have misplaced each other. It doesn't matter.
What matters is that one day the demons will come to claim you if you flirt with them anymore. That all of my understanding and non judgments can not change that. That you are trapped in a prison of your past and you are living in your own hell. You live so very far away and even if you were standing beside me you would still be to far to reach.That one day I will get the call from someone I don't know, and be told  that you have gone forever. That a gaping hollow whole will open up and I will never be able to fill it. I will never be the same. That I will never get over loosing you. That I will hear your voice when I talk and be unable to speak again. Because we have always sounded the same. I will never be able to face the mirror again. Because we have always been so similar. Because I didn't have the courage to beg you to stop loudly enough. Because I was afraid you would turn me away. Because I want to yell at you and beg you not to leave me alone. Not like this. Because I am trying to be you and be strong. Because I am trying to be you and be smart and better. Because I always looked up to you. I learned from you. Because I love you. Because I miss you. Because I will have no one to share a sister's secrets with. Because all I have left are fragile bits of memories. That I clutch them so tight I risk breaking them.They are fragile shards of glass and they cut me every time I look at them. The pain cuts me and I weep. And I always looked up to you. I always learned from you. And I always loved you.
                                          Neurotic Nelly

Letter to a Friend

Dear Friend,
Sometimes in life we falter. Sometimes everything seems to go awry. We are angry, confused, and  afraid. Can we live without this person? Can we function on a daily basis? Can we be anything but broken?
We fall from Grace like broken winged angels no longer able to fly.We are all the walking wounded. We have all been damaged. Damaged by our past, by others, by ourselves. Damaged by our choices, by our environments, by our refusal to accept ourselves. We bump into each other on the sidewalks never looking into each other's faces. Never bothering to see the other person stumbling along beside us. We are sometimes concentrated on our own lives so intently that we forget to see other's suffering. We limp along thinking we are the only one's hurting.
We walk along the lonely road shivering in the cold. Believing that we are not worth the time wasted on us. Believing that we deserve to suffer. Some of us have fought for our country. Some of us have fought only for our souls. Some of us have fought wars in our own minds. All of us have waged war against our beliefs. Against our personal truths. Waged wars in our own lives. Sometimes we loose loved ones. Sometimes the binds that tie us together are broken and we are left shattered on the ground. Sometimes we loose our livelihoods. We are left with nothing but the clothes on our back and no shoes upon our feet. Sometimes we loose ourselves. Leaving a stranger blinking back in the mirror.
I do not know why we suffer so, I am not a great philosopher.  I do believe we suffer to be able to accept joy when it comes. I believe that as the binds that tie us together get severed we are able to form new ones with others. I believe that this life makes us strong.
I can not be where you are. Our lives circle in different paths. That does not mean I do not see you. That does not mean I do not hear you. I have lived in the hell you are visiting for so long I chose the wallpaper. I hope you like blue butterflies and yellow stripes.
We are distrusting. We often feel invisible. We believe that nothing is given to us without expectations or strings attached. Always waiting for the other shoe to drop. To be pulled into something that will hurt us.
This letter to you is my offering. My gift to you. I only have one expectation. That you take my gift of friendship without fear or distrust.  You said once that you didn't think I was put in your life to watch over you. I am sure that is true but why are any of us put in anyone's life? Maybe it is to help you. Maybe it is to help me. Maybe it is to teach us something. I have always believed that people come into your life for a reason. To help, to teach, to befriend, to learn. I can not tell you what to do. What I can do is listen. What I can do be there for you. What I can do is never judge.  What I can  do is text you your positive truths. You are worthy of happiness. You are talented. You are beautiful. What you have to say is important. You are worthy of other's people's time. You are strong. You are a caring and amazing person. You are you and there is no one in the world like you.  You are my friend. The world would be a sadder more bitter place without you.  These are your truths. We are all the walking wounded and I am thankful that I get to stumble along beside you for awhile.
                                      Sincerely, Neurotic Nelly

Beautiful

People come in many shapes and sizes. We have different cultures. Different skin tones. Different languages. Different personalities. Different ancestries. The only constant in all of us is our differences. Some of us are well. Some of us are not. Some of us are strong. Some of us are followers. Some of us are funny. Some of us are more serious. All of us deserve respect and understanding. We are all beautiful.
If beauty is just in the eye of the beholder than I must have huge hands. I see beauty in everyone. Pain that makes us struggle is beautiful. It makes us who we are. Strong unbending warriors. Beautiful in our strength.
Compassion is beautiful. It makes us strive to help the broken. To help the fallen. The injured souls.
Anger is beautiful. It makes us stand up and say I will not accept this. I deserve better treatment. Or this other person does not deserve your mistreatment. It inspires us to change the situation. It inspires us to change.
Sadness is beautiful. It makes us hold onto our loved ones more tightly. It makes us search out how to be happy.
Truth is beautiful. It makes us look at ourselves and the world around us and admit that things are not perfect. That life is an imperfect glorious experience.
Beauty is not what we look like or where we come from. Beauty is how we treat others. How we offer a helping hand or a shoulder to cry on. Beauty is standing up for those in need. Beauty is ending the stigma of mental illness. Beauty is a smile. It is a touch. It is comforting words. It is wiping away a child's tears. It is offering a a glass of water to the thirsty. Advice to the masses asking for help. It is accepting that you are who you are for a reason. Beauty is hope. Hope for a better day. Hope for change. Hope for others. Beauty is love. Loving your family. Loving your friends. Loving yourself even as broken as you are. Beauty is falling down to your knees in despair and getting back up. Beauty is in a child's laughter. A old man's poems. A mother's lullabies. Beauty is in a gentle warm breeze. In a moment of silence in the middle of a field. Beauty is in everything that we experience. Beauty is in our differences. Our beliefs. Our reaching out to be better people. In reaching for our dreams. In reaching out to help lift those that need to be lifted. Beauty is the seasons. Beauty is the trees, the water and everything in between. Beauty is in all of us and everything around us. We are all beautiful.
                                             Neurotic Nelly