Writing

Chapter
one: Don’t die ur so sexy aha x

There is this
running joke about Canadians being too friendly. Apologizing too much – I never
paid much mind to it until I was word vomiting a string of sorry, excuse me and
another sorry. An apology can mean so little depending on the nuances – how it
is worded, if it is an “I’m sorry IF x happened” as if it’s a presidential
debate being broadcast on CNN. If I wanted to be gaslit about reality, I would
sign up to go on a reality dating show, thanks very much. I would like to offer
an alternative to the Canadians say sorry too much trope – perhaps other people
aren’t apologizing enough. Does Donald Trump really seem like someone who would
say sorry if he tripped you? Personally, I think sorry isn’t in his vocabulary,
but that’s besides the point. We are not family members at a holiday dinner
debating politics, but if you’d like to my direct messages are open and I’ve
prepared a power point. Surprise, I found some pictures of you from high school
doing something super embarrassing (wearing a Halloween costume) it isn’t
problematic, but the vibe is just weird enough to make me everyone feel
slightly off put. As a teen with severe cystic acne who had to go on Accutane
(this is NOT a plug for Big Pharma), I am all too aware of my digital
footprint. I remark to my parents often about why they let a 15-year-old get
Facebook, as those Facebook memories are relentless documentation of the fact
my brain was not fully developed.

Hot tip: telling everyone their decisions
which are equally as questionable as your own who are under the age of 25 that
they will understand your perspective once their brain is fully formed is both
passive aggressive and a bit condescending. Do I stand by it as a woman on
the cusp of their thirties? Yes. Is that information truly helpful to anyone
going through anything ever? Not in particular. However, I do think we all need
to be humbled at times, me included. My brain is often floating in space, moving
backwards like a planet in retrograde, relishing the past with no regard for
the present. During the pandemic, I met a psychiatrist in the brutal chill of
March – before climate change turned snow into rain. I remember him asking “any
more trauma?” repeatedly as I distilled 25 years of my life into a 30-minute
appointment. I have by no means had a difficult life – but my family history of
Bipolar Disorder Type 2 did not give me any advantages. Being diagnosed and
treated after a quarter of my life passed by brought both an enormous sense of
grief as well as relief. I cried for days straight – pointing the finger at all
those in my life who had gaslit me and told me it was all in my head. I mourned
the version of me – so desperate to feel better but without the tools and
support to do so. Apparently, it is not a normal university experience to want
to jump in front of a subway train or feel big emotions to the point of
insomnia. However, I did go to art school, so I mined the depths of my emotion
until I was swimming, not drowning.

When I first
started medication, I was worried I would lose my spark, the spark being
unstable brain chemicals and crying spells that lasted for days. There is this
sickening realization that medication only brings me into a window of tolerance,
and it is not a well-executed magic trick. When I say I am constantly working
on myself, I mean it. Except when I am mindlessly scrolling Tik Tok and
dissociating. Thanks to my incredible care team (mostly my therapist) I feel as
grounded as I have for as long as I have. I do wish sometimes my range of
emotions was like an emotionally constipated avoidant attachment style twenty-something
year old man, but I would not be myself in that way. Playing the role of
someone who feels less, when I feel deep in my bones, like an ache in the
middle of winter – cold, all consuming has allowed me to create art. If I could
describe bipolar disorder type 2 – I would think that it is alike to canoeing
in frozen water. In lieu of adequate mental health care (because that DOES NOT
EXIST IN THE MODERN WORLD) here is my checklist of reasons getting mental
health help in any form might be helpful.

1.      
It is affecting your sleep, eating, and ability
to do everyday tasks (two-week insomnia period, anyone?)

2.      
Your intrusive thoughts are out of control.

3.      
You put yourself in situations where there is
the potential for danger.

4.      
You start arguing with people you care about
regarding things that don’t matter.

5.      
Crying nonstop, or feeling nothing nonstop.

6.      
Suicidal ideation or thoughts that it might be a
better option to be dead.

7.      
Feeling a gut urge to seek help.

8.      
Too many suicide jokes (pointing at myself)