I don't want to be me when I write. Sometimes I want to be someone else, hide in a persona, another life beyond my own. Hide my voice in a cascade of voices, a rainbow of emotions, a spectrum of disorders and pathologies, raindrops leaving memories in rainwater puddles soaking into Mother Earth, seeping through the cracks and into the pavement.
This is the dialogue I have in my mind when I write -- it happens more often than not. "Why write? Why my voice and my story, among so many others?" Sometimes, I even feel a sense of guilt with my writing, something lingering from my years as a "closeted" writer, not truly knowing that I wanted to become a working writer; but inevitably feeling salvation behind the words, between the meanings of what was and has been said and unsaid. I felt stronger, lifted, liberated in another's voice, such as at my first poetry reading. I felt connected, my spirit re-joined, and my soul rejoiced, and I said, "Thank you, world."
A lot of my writing, especially on my own blog, has gotten me through even some of the darkest moments in my life. I realize this now. I look back on my writings, my blog in this case, and am thankful for its existence, reflective in the various mental stages, the different departures and returns to my psyche I went through--especially with uncovering, unraveling, and discovering my Bipolar diagnosis and condition, among a turbulent 20s sort of experience in undergrad and later living abroad as an English Teacher in Seoul, South Korea.
I didn't realize I had a mental illness until after all of this happened, until after I graduated from college, until after I lived in Hongik in Seoul, a super liberal, artsy district in South Korea's capital city.
I was 27, just one month before turning 28, and about 6 months after returning from living abroad in South Korea, when I first was hospitalized for having a mental breakdown. It was my first episode, and my first experience at a psych ward within the heartbeats and rhythms of life in the bustling New York City. I mumbled my way out of a weekday night classroom period at the New School, studying on how to "Write for New York City Newspapers," with Professor Shapiro, when Sue realized something was not right about my mental state as class ended.
That same night I was admitted into Beth Israel Hospital. I remember waking up in a hospital bed, alone, but surrounded by medical professional attending to other patients, and that I constantly mumbling to myself all night. Eyes wide open, strange Christmas light like activity going on in my mind, I could see what was in front of me, I could describe it in strange, exact detail, but I couldn't really comprehend what was going around about me, not fully, not logically. I didn't really know that I had lost touch with people around me, lost in my thoughts, lost in my ability to re-connect with the world, I was rambling and rambling for hours on end.
That night, my brother drove from Detroit, Michigan to New York City, and met me 12 hours later in the psych ward of the hospital where I was still mumbling to myself about people in my life following me, about people wanting to stalk me. I remember seeing him in front of me, patiently waiting for me to respond, patiently listening to my incoherent talking, my jabbering, my fractured voice, the lost meaning behind my words--yet his seeking to understand what was behind what I was saying--and my lost way through my path in life. I remember sensing his worry, his disbelief, and his shock. I was looking downwards, but I could see him in the corner of my eye. He sat on the bed beside me, quiet worry behind his brow, a sense of serenity in the chaos that was his little sister's mind. I tried once to look up and talk to him, but made no connection in my conversation. Soon after, I was then given some medicine and felt subdued and soon fell asleep shortly after attempting communication with him.
My first does of medication for my illness was 10 mg of Ablify.....
Many changes in medicines and 6 years later, I am now taking 80 mg of Latuda and 50 mg of Zoloft.
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