Why I’m Like This: Or Broken Brains, Broken Hearts & Other Reasons Why

by pronounced "ahhh" like a sigh

Long post. I’m not sure why it’s not showing the paragraph breaks. If anyone knows how to fix that please let me know.

Thanks,

B.

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This weekend was weird. If you’ve been following my “career” for a few years, you know that I had another website and I journaled/blogged regularly on that site. My domain expired about a year ago and I waited one week before I renewed it. I took for granted that it would be available when I was ready to buy it. After all, I’ve had the domain name (www.basseyworld.com) for 10 years. I had time, right? Wrong. The day after the domain expired, it was bought by some Canadian spam company. My beloved Bassey World site was no longer mine. I was upset for a few reasons but the main reason was because it meant that all the journaling and writing I have done over the last 10 years was gone. This wasn’t serious writing, these were mainly just musings and documentations of my day to day life. Not really that interesting or important to anyone other than me.

This weekend, I discovered http://www.archive.org, through some machinations and careful searches, I was able to locate my entire online life from 2001 to 2006 when I stopped the day to day journaling. I spent the better part of the weekend, reading just about everything that I’d written. That’s hundreds and hundreds of posts. I came across the posts from before the breakdown in Chicago while on tour, the posts while I was in Chicago and then  the following posts as I was diagnosed with bipolar type II. The struggle I had to maintain my life while I was trying to figure out this new one, this diagnoses, the medications, the brief periods were I felt “normal” and then the crash again that lead to my first hospitalization. It was all there. Documented and archived. It was difficult to read. I realized that though I’ve changed a considerable amount, a lot hasn’t changed.

I woke up this morning feeling something inexplicably small and sinking in my stomach. It kept me up most of the night and the pockets I did find to sleep were disturbed by rolling and stumbling dreams. I’m not sure what’s going on. I’ve had these feelings before. I’ve had these kind of dreams before and it usually means something is bothering me. I’m pretty sure it was combing through those archives.  No, I know that’s what it was. The details can be saved for its own personal blog entry but let’s just say I’m glad I have a psych appointment today. Let’s just say I’m looking forward to the relative chance in Philly this summer to sit with myself and do some serious soul and heart searching. I’ve attached myself to all these roles and allowed other people to assign personality and their 2 cents to both my mental state and my physical space. I’ve grown so attached to what people think of me, that I’ve neglected the focus on what I think of me. Trying to change minds that are already set in stone. Minds that honestly don’t matter.  I tend to hyperfocus on that instead, of  what I’m worth at the end of the day  and the people who love me just as I am. Don’t get me wrong, I love myself and I know I have work to do. But nobody wants to be misunderstood or misrepresented. I think I left Twitter in part because I was tired of screaming into the wind and having folks twist what I said into ugly, hateful pretzels.
This move to Philly is giving me the urge to reach out to someone that I probably should leave alone. It’s taking everything I have not to email or call or contact.  I know that I sometimes holds things until the burst. I can’t shake this want to call, but I know that I honestly can’t and probably won’t. That’s a part of the sink. I’m usually better at following my heart. I’m also stressed about this book. I’m not writing. Actually, that’s not true I am writing, I’m just not writing anything good. This proposal has wound itself around my neck. I’m not sure if I’m doing it right. I think. I don’t know. I’m often too hard on myself. The poetry is slow. I wrote that poem the other day but for the most part, I’m just not interested in poetry these days. Nothing that pulls emotion. I feel like I’m in a rut. I need to feel something else for awhile. Something not as whirlwind and roller coaster ride. Something more flat ground and easy chair.  Philly will help even though right now it feels like it might just make things worse.
This morning, I’m missing my Brooklyn self. My before Boogie self. My Nostrand Avenue bedroom self. I’m missing my bed. I’m missing my  purple sheets and white pillow cases. I’m missing my  bedroom, five shelf bookcases, white and wood Chinese screen hiding dirty laundry and lonely suitcases. That bedroom with closet overstuffed with clothes I needed to wear and more shoes than any one person should own. On the floor, that rug the color of fading grass. The wall above my bed held a painting by Laverne Ross, three dancers in mid movement. Enchantment it’s called. That painting has helped me out of bed more times than I can count. And I remember the bedroom surrounded by candles and  pictures of my family. And the black & white strip of Peter and I taken in a photo booth.  I don’t know where that picture is. When Peter died, I searched everywhere for it. I need it now. That moment frozen in silliness and smiles and life. He was so alive once. I’m still not sure what shifted in the universe. Why he’s gone.
That was my Brooklyn bedroom, not all of it just the parts I felt like sharing. I guess that’s what this blog  is really. The parts I feel like sharing.
Things you should know: My dresser is overstuffed with clothes that aren’t folded properly. The suitcase I never unpacked from Philly is now the suitcase I didn’t unpack from Pittsburgh and it’s sitting in the middle of the floor in my bedroom. I’m too hard on myself. My cell phone doesn’t ring as often as I would like it too. I’m vain and insecure all at once. I feel plain and boring sometimes but I can catch myself  in the mirror and marvel at how perfect my mouth is;  how necessary my eyes are. I’m still waiting for someone to tell me that they’ve changed their mind and maybe I should go to law school and stop this writing thing. I’m afraid of not being good enough. But I also think I’m a better writer than 95% of the people who call themselves that. I’m arrogant like that.  I like to be surrounded by people and need to be alone, sometimes at the same time. I wonder often if I’m a very good friend. I sometimes can’t say what I mean or want. It’s easier to write things down. I’m shy and pretend that I’m not. I’m pretty sure  that all these things that I felt and hurt for haven’t really been love—only practice. I forget things easily. I spend money too quickly, almost like I don’t want it. I think my sister deserves to be older than I am. She shocks me with her brilliance. I don’t talk about my brothers as much as I should. I love them. I just don’t know these men they’ve become while I wasn’t looking. I’ve been gone too long; far too long. And my grammar is terrible. I don’t know where anything is supposed to go. I put commas where I want them and colons where I think they will look nice and dashes when my brain stops in the middle of a sentence.  And a whole bunch of other stuff.
I’m not sure why I’m telling you all this. I’m not sure why I tell you anything that I do. I think it’s because most days, I need something as small as a “me too” from someone. Today will be one of those days.
I need to go. The day has managed to start and move without me. I’m sometimes not sure how that is possible.
I’m tired of apologizing. I need to just forgive myself for all the things I broke and move on.  I vow to stop breaking things in the future so you should probably stop  handing me things then.
Flawed but Trying,
B.
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