Thinking about adding
some old boyfriends
on facebook
I'm curious if they're fatter
smarter or balder than they were before
I wonder if they care to see
if I am fatter, saner, or pretty than before
Do they ever enter my name into search engines
just to see what comes up?
Do they ever wonder what happened to me
on slow and rainy Sunday afternoons?
Every psychic I have ever been to
said I would fall in love with and marry a friend
That someone in my life would come back
That my future husband would catch a glance of me
standing in a pool of sunlight
and realize his past mistakes
Then we'd live happily ever after
As much as I want men to follow me
to search for strands of my hair in the grass
I can't help but not trust in fate
and leave a trail of breadcrumbs
wherever I go, just in case
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Maybe I'm Not As Bad As I Thought
I'm reading a memoir right now about Borderline Personality Disorder. Or should I say, about a woman who has BPD. It's the second such book I've read and there's one thing I keep hearing myself mumble as I turn the pages -- "this doesn't really sound like me."
I also have started going on BPD support websites and again and again I keep finding myself doubting the diagnosis. In therapy I stop my counselor often and say, "no I haven't done that in years. Not since I was 23 or so." She folds her hands and says slowly, "well maybe you're further in recovery than you think."
I don't know what to think of that, of any of this. I read about women who can't work, who are unable to get out of bed, who are unable to deal with the tiniest tasks in life. And sure, I've had periods like that but they've been abbreviated. A day here, a weekend there. But still I get up on Monday mornings and go to work and I still pay my own bills and take care of myself. I don't fall apart if my counselor isn't around to answer my calls (in fact, I've never felt the need to speak to them outside of session.) I just don't know. I feel almost bad even saying the words but... I just don't seem as fucked up as other people.
It's not meant as a judgment and the very fact of it confuses me. When I was diagnosed with BPD, I was in a mental hospital after my fifth suicide attempt. I was twenty-three. It was eight years ago, almost to the day. Does the shoe still fit?
My friend called me the poster child of BPD but yet after attending the BPD conference at Yale, he said to me "you're not really that fucked up." Maybe my skin is thicker than I thought. I don't fly into blind rages, I rarely truly act on crazy impulses, and I've learned to temper my needs. I have periods of depression and I certainly am triggers often but yet... even as much as I can fall to pieces.... it's just not as bad as other people I see.
What do I do with this? Do I feel superior? Do I throw away the entire diagnosis? So many characteristics still apply. But now with the ADD diagnosis, I have to wonder. With ADD, I'm unable to focus on thoughts and be productive --- is BPD just a form of ADD but.... with emotion?? The same way thoughts can storm in my mind and cloud rationale I also feel about feelings. Is it all related? All just about.... not being able to untangle clutter in my brain?
I want to strip away diagnoses and look at actual behavior and thought patterns. I don't think I want to say I'm a borderline anymore. It doesn't feel right anymore. I don't know. There's some sort of change in the air, in my veins, in my brain... and I'm jsut waiting to see where I land.
I also have started going on BPD support websites and again and again I keep finding myself doubting the diagnosis. In therapy I stop my counselor often and say, "no I haven't done that in years. Not since I was 23 or so." She folds her hands and says slowly, "well maybe you're further in recovery than you think."
I don't know what to think of that, of any of this. I read about women who can't work, who are unable to get out of bed, who are unable to deal with the tiniest tasks in life. And sure, I've had periods like that but they've been abbreviated. A day here, a weekend there. But still I get up on Monday mornings and go to work and I still pay my own bills and take care of myself. I don't fall apart if my counselor isn't around to answer my calls (in fact, I've never felt the need to speak to them outside of session.) I just don't know. I feel almost bad even saying the words but... I just don't seem as fucked up as other people.
It's not meant as a judgment and the very fact of it confuses me. When I was diagnosed with BPD, I was in a mental hospital after my fifth suicide attempt. I was twenty-three. It was eight years ago, almost to the day. Does the shoe still fit?
My friend called me the poster child of BPD but yet after attending the BPD conference at Yale, he said to me "you're not really that fucked up." Maybe my skin is thicker than I thought. I don't fly into blind rages, I rarely truly act on crazy impulses, and I've learned to temper my needs. I have periods of depression and I certainly am triggers often but yet... even as much as I can fall to pieces.... it's just not as bad as other people I see.
What do I do with this? Do I feel superior? Do I throw away the entire diagnosis? So many characteristics still apply. But now with the ADD diagnosis, I have to wonder. With ADD, I'm unable to focus on thoughts and be productive --- is BPD just a form of ADD but.... with emotion?? The same way thoughts can storm in my mind and cloud rationale I also feel about feelings. Is it all related? All just about.... not being able to untangle clutter in my brain?
I want to strip away diagnoses and look at actual behavior and thought patterns. I don't think I want to say I'm a borderline anymore. It doesn't feel right anymore. I don't know. There's some sort of change in the air, in my veins, in my brain... and I'm jsut waiting to see where I land.
a friend writes of butterflies
wielding chainsaws
husqvarnas tearing at stomach walls
texas massacre
on the backs of loggers
winged insects
hummingbirds bring up the rear
stampeding, but on wings
those butterflies
and their chainsaws
armies of fluttering
confused with softness
you make me hard
as the fall comes
you make me hard
as the love leaves
the trees scream
they all turn red
and those butterflies
wielding those chainsaws
make paper, bleed into pens
punk rock my punctuation
hummingbirds giving blow jobs
in the backseat
of rented saabs
those fucking butterflies
with those fucking chain saws
leather faced, cocaine fueled
monarched yellow and orange
cocoons split
pupas desolated
you are no longer
benign excitement
you are no longer
malignant anxiety
you are those mother fucking
butterflies
wielding those chain saws
running out of gas
breaking your chains
tossed to the side
metal clank
they wield them well
but they cannot
juggle
wielding chainsaws
husqvarnas tearing at stomach walls
texas massacre
on the backs of loggers
winged insects
hummingbirds bring up the rear
stampeding, but on wings
those butterflies
and their chainsaws
armies of fluttering
confused with softness
you make me hard
as the fall comes
you make me hard
as the love leaves
the trees scream
they all turn red
and those butterflies
wielding those chainsaws
make paper, bleed into pens
punk rock my punctuation
hummingbirds giving blow jobs
in the backseat
of rented saabs
those fucking butterflies
with those fucking chain saws
leather faced, cocaine fueled
monarched yellow and orange
cocoons split
pupas desolated
you are no longer
benign excitement
you are no longer
malignant anxiety
you are those mother fucking
butterflies
wielding those chain saws
running out of gas
breaking your chains
tossed to the side
metal clank
they wield them well
but they cannot
juggle
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Hi, my name is Janice, and I have Borderline Personality Disorder.
If you google "Janice Brabaw" you're going to get several types of search results. Most of them pertain to my poetry career and my books and the other links will lead you to my professional accomplishments working as a freelancer in film and television. As much as I'd like to maintain some sort of separation between the two, I can't. It's something I'm aware of every time I get a call for a new gig. I wonder if my new boss did a search for me on the web and I wonder how many jobs I may lose out on because of what they may find. Most people don't have their psychiatric background splashed all over the interwebs.
If it wasn't for my poetry, I never would have been so public about my issues with mental health. Honestly, at first it was a marking ploy to sell some books at a time when I cared less about poetry and advocacy and sanity then I did selling some books to make some money to pay my rent. I threw together "Universe, Disturbed" in a weekend and added "depression" and "borderline personality disorder" as key words on Amazon when it was listed. I never expected everything that came from the publication of that book. The performances, becoming part of the NYC Poetry Circuit, the reviews, the accoldates, the book signings, the press releases.... and mostly, people throwing their arms around me thanking me for writing the book because it helped them. Helped them? How can I possibly help anyone? I put together a book of poems I wrote about wanting to kill myself and being a miserable teenager. How could that sort of angsty poetry help anyone? But more and more that's what I got. People thanking me for putting words to their pain, for making them feel less alone. It was beautiful, it was shocking, and it was humbling.
I was praised as being brave -- for talking to my hometown newspaper about past suicide attempts, for reading a poem about being raped in my college bookstore, to being honest about my unstable relationships and heartbreaks. I talked about being fat, about being unwanted, about having horrible self esteem and hairy legs. I did all of this without considering the consequences. I thought of other women who had written about their personal struggles -- Elizabeth Wurtzel, Susana Kaysen, etc etc -- and felt I was amongst the shameless and brave. But then .... as much as I am a writer with a message and a mission, I'm more than that. Suddenly I realized it wasn't just strangers that were learning about me (a thought that didn't scare me at all) but that I was standing naked in front of my childhood friends, my small hometown community, my family, my coworkers and announcing loudly "HEY I'M MENTALLY UNSTABLE. I'M A GIANT FUCKING MESS! COME LOOK AT MY DIRTY LAUNDRY!"
And I started to pull back into myself and think "why the FUCK did I do that?"
I was ashamed and scared and embarrassed. I had dreams about being in a classroom and having to get up in front of everyone and use a toilet in the middle of the room, everyone watching and judging. Dreams about being naked in a glass box in Times Square and unable to hide. So many eyes, so many words, so many abandonments and rejections and mocking laughter....
I thought that the world - both public and personal - would praise me for being honest. But I never considered the consequences.
I never considered that forever in the matrix of the internet my name would be linked to mental illness. I'd never be able to fully reinvent myself, or step away from stigma. What do most people remember about Sylvia Plath? Her head in the oven, not her poetry. I had not only labeled myself but permanently branded myself. Every man I date can read about my deep dark secrets online or buy it on Amazon. Every employer can google my psychiatric history. All of that is fine to poet Janice, to performer Janice, to artist Janice. But what about future employee Janice? Future daughter in law Janice?
On Facebook I try to maintain some sense of public and privacy. There is my "professional" list and my "BPD" list. I try not to post to my former coworkers about the days I ranting about not being able to get out of bed. But at the same time, I want to tell them about my writing, my advocacy, my performances. Never more was this so achingly apparent as when I was asked to speak at Yale. I wanted everyone I knew I was going... but not necessarily why.
I'm reading Kiera Van Gelder's book, The Buddha and the Borderline and I understand the the need for professional, public women to say "I have this disorder, I struggle, this is what it is." That is how awareness is spread, it is how we with mental illness will fight stigma. But I also need struggle with the other aspects of my life -- I don't want some accountant to think twice about hiring me on a movie because of my history. And its embarrassing sometimes! Imagine a star at the bottom of your resume that says "also has a major psychiatric illness." How do I prove to them, to new friends, to MYSELF that I am more than my case files?
So, this is the thing. It's already out there. My writing, my history, my diagnoses. I need to stand by them and continue to be vocal and to help other people to understand. I think of those with AIDS or who are bipolar or who have other stigmatized conditions. I'm not particularly brave -- in fact, if anything, I'm kinda stupid. I'm not even that honest and it's not exactly even a selfless act to talk about my condition -- I am just seeking understanding. It is a way to vent, a way to express myself. And as I write this, it's probably not healthy for me to try to be too many things to too many people. I don't want to splinter who I am.
So... my name is Janice Brabaw and I have borderline personality disorder. I also have attention deficit disorder and I struggle with major depression. I am one of two million people in this country with BPD. BPD is, at the heart of the disorder, the inability to regulate emotion. I have rabid mood swings and have very "thin skin." I am overly sensitive and have horrible separation anxiety. I have good days and I have bad days. I very prone to depression. I have tried to kill myself in the past and one of the signs of BPD is self destructive behavior -- cutting, eating disorders, sexual addictions, drinking, gambling, drugs... my vice has always been food. One of the reasons I am obese. Because of this disorder, I am in pain... a lot. I can be needy and clingy and quite often very illogical and unreasonable in my personal relationships. I have trouble being alone. I am better than I was and sometimes getting out of bed is more than I can bear. I take medication, I go to therapy, I lash out sometimes, I hate myself quite often, and perhaps need a bit more TLC, attention, and validation of love in friendships and relationships.
I am also a writer, a poet, a publisher, a film accountant, a performer, a daughter, a lover, a cat lady, an amazing friend, a fantastic girlfriend, a farm girl turned city girl turned suburban girl, a Pisces, an ADD case, a good driver, a decent singer, a hard worker, a great cook, a binger, a collector of self help books, a dedicated employee, a ruminator, a bitch, a crazy girl, a fat girl, a bubbly girl, a professional, a cigarette smoker, a best friend, a sister, a daughter, an aunt, a niece, a student, a client, a patient, etc etc etc
So yes, public and private world --- coworkers and writers and family and friends and childhood neighbors and teachers --- I have a major psychiatric illness. But I am also Janice Brabaw -- with all the good and bad that it entails.
If it wasn't for my poetry, I never would have been so public about my issues with mental health. Honestly, at first it was a marking ploy to sell some books at a time when I cared less about poetry and advocacy and sanity then I did selling some books to make some money to pay my rent. I threw together "Universe, Disturbed" in a weekend and added "depression" and "borderline personality disorder" as key words on Amazon when it was listed. I never expected everything that came from the publication of that book. The performances, becoming part of the NYC Poetry Circuit, the reviews, the accoldates, the book signings, the press releases.... and mostly, people throwing their arms around me thanking me for writing the book because it helped them. Helped them? How can I possibly help anyone? I put together a book of poems I wrote about wanting to kill myself and being a miserable teenager. How could that sort of angsty poetry help anyone? But more and more that's what I got. People thanking me for putting words to their pain, for making them feel less alone. It was beautiful, it was shocking, and it was humbling.
I was praised as being brave -- for talking to my hometown newspaper about past suicide attempts, for reading a poem about being raped in my college bookstore, to being honest about my unstable relationships and heartbreaks. I talked about being fat, about being unwanted, about having horrible self esteem and hairy legs. I did all of this without considering the consequences. I thought of other women who had written about their personal struggles -- Elizabeth Wurtzel, Susana Kaysen, etc etc -- and felt I was amongst the shameless and brave. But then .... as much as I am a writer with a message and a mission, I'm more than that. Suddenly I realized it wasn't just strangers that were learning about me (a thought that didn't scare me at all) but that I was standing naked in front of my childhood friends, my small hometown community, my family, my coworkers and announcing loudly "HEY I'M MENTALLY UNSTABLE. I'M A GIANT FUCKING MESS! COME LOOK AT MY DIRTY LAUNDRY!"
And I started to pull back into myself and think "why the FUCK did I do that?"
I was ashamed and scared and embarrassed. I had dreams about being in a classroom and having to get up in front of everyone and use a toilet in the middle of the room, everyone watching and judging. Dreams about being naked in a glass box in Times Square and unable to hide. So many eyes, so many words, so many abandonments and rejections and mocking laughter....
I thought that the world - both public and personal - would praise me for being honest. But I never considered the consequences.
I never considered that forever in the matrix of the internet my name would be linked to mental illness. I'd never be able to fully reinvent myself, or step away from stigma. What do most people remember about Sylvia Plath? Her head in the oven, not her poetry. I had not only labeled myself but permanently branded myself. Every man I date can read about my deep dark secrets online or buy it on Amazon. Every employer can google my psychiatric history. All of that is fine to poet Janice, to performer Janice, to artist Janice. But what about future employee Janice? Future daughter in law Janice?
On Facebook I try to maintain some sense of public and privacy. There is my "professional" list and my "BPD" list. I try not to post to my former coworkers about the days I ranting about not being able to get out of bed. But at the same time, I want to tell them about my writing, my advocacy, my performances. Never more was this so achingly apparent as when I was asked to speak at Yale. I wanted everyone I knew I was going... but not necessarily why.
I'm reading Kiera Van Gelder's book, The Buddha and the Borderline and I understand the the need for professional, public women to say "I have this disorder, I struggle, this is what it is." That is how awareness is spread, it is how we with mental illness will fight stigma. But I also need struggle with the other aspects of my life -- I don't want some accountant to think twice about hiring me on a movie because of my history. And its embarrassing sometimes! Imagine a star at the bottom of your resume that says "also has a major psychiatric illness." How do I prove to them, to new friends, to MYSELF that I am more than my case files?
So, this is the thing. It's already out there. My writing, my history, my diagnoses. I need to stand by them and continue to be vocal and to help other people to understand. I think of those with AIDS or who are bipolar or who have other stigmatized conditions. I'm not particularly brave -- in fact, if anything, I'm kinda stupid. I'm not even that honest and it's not exactly even a selfless act to talk about my condition -- I am just seeking understanding. It is a way to vent, a way to express myself. And as I write this, it's probably not healthy for me to try to be too many things to too many people. I don't want to splinter who I am.
So... my name is Janice Brabaw and I have borderline personality disorder. I also have attention deficit disorder and I struggle with major depression. I am one of two million people in this country with BPD. BPD is, at the heart of the disorder, the inability to regulate emotion. I have rabid mood swings and have very "thin skin." I am overly sensitive and have horrible separation anxiety. I have good days and I have bad days. I very prone to depression. I have tried to kill myself in the past and one of the signs of BPD is self destructive behavior -- cutting, eating disorders, sexual addictions, drinking, gambling, drugs... my vice has always been food. One of the reasons I am obese. Because of this disorder, I am in pain... a lot. I can be needy and clingy and quite often very illogical and unreasonable in my personal relationships. I have trouble being alone. I am better than I was and sometimes getting out of bed is more than I can bear. I take medication, I go to therapy, I lash out sometimes, I hate myself quite often, and perhaps need a bit more TLC, attention, and validation of love in friendships and relationships.
I am also a writer, a poet, a publisher, a film accountant, a performer, a daughter, a lover, a cat lady, an amazing friend, a fantastic girlfriend, a farm girl turned city girl turned suburban girl, a Pisces, an ADD case, a good driver, a decent singer, a hard worker, a great cook, a binger, a collector of self help books, a dedicated employee, a ruminator, a bitch, a crazy girl, a fat girl, a bubbly girl, a professional, a cigarette smoker, a best friend, a sister, a daughter, an aunt, a niece, a student, a client, a patient, etc etc etc
So yes, public and private world --- coworkers and writers and family and friends and childhood neighbors and teachers --- I have a major psychiatric illness. But I am also Janice Brabaw -- with all the good and bad that it entails.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
I really never thought the day would come that you'd be out of my life. I guess that's the biggest upset - the shock. I mean I trusted you in ways I have never trusted anyone before, with feelings and memories and thoughts I never thought I'd share with anyone. I thought we were family, I thought we had bonded in a deep, spiritual way. I had never been so sure of anything before. With no lover, no other friend. I found home in you, I found comfort, and I fell into myself. I let me be me - ugly, beautiful, contorted, loving, selfish, depressed, ecstatic --- I freed myself and you encouraged it.
And now you're gone.
A thousand times a day I remember the stabbing pain of reading your text saying how your life is so much better without me. I try to understand what I ever did to deserve that. I blamed myself for a really long time and I contorted myself to try to win you back. But honestly.... I dont' think I was ever that bad. I loved you, I would have died for you, I was a good and honest and caring friend. I accepted your faults and encouraged you in your endeavors. I had bad times -- I had wretched dark nights and I'm sure I rattled you a bit -- but to say that your life is better without me? Like I was a disease, some sort of fungus, an infection.... after all I did for you?
To say that our friendship was fake. And that it all meant nothing. That I meant nothing.
It sounds melodramatic and if I were you I'd assure me that I am wrong. But I honestly don't know if I ever can ever bear to be that open and honest with anyone else ever again. Losing you -- having you simply throw me away and turn you back -- has torn me apart. It has left this black disease in my heart and my self esteem is about as low as it could be. That's how fucked up this whole thing is. I should be mad at you, i should blame you.... but I can't. I hope everytime my phne rings that it's you to tell me you're sorry. I simply do not want to believe that you -- that you that I knew and loved and trusted -- could turn into this person you apparently are now.
If someone like you could turn on me, become so cold..... then I don't believe I could ever let anyone else in again. I am sealing the holes n my heart, barricading all doors, and hoping I can make it through this storm.
How does one simply stop caring? overnight?
And now you're gone.
A thousand times a day I remember the stabbing pain of reading your text saying how your life is so much better without me. I try to understand what I ever did to deserve that. I blamed myself for a really long time and I contorted myself to try to win you back. But honestly.... I dont' think I was ever that bad. I loved you, I would have died for you, I was a good and honest and caring friend. I accepted your faults and encouraged you in your endeavors. I had bad times -- I had wretched dark nights and I'm sure I rattled you a bit -- but to say that your life is better without me? Like I was a disease, some sort of fungus, an infection.... after all I did for you?
To say that our friendship was fake. And that it all meant nothing. That I meant nothing.
It sounds melodramatic and if I were you I'd assure me that I am wrong. But I honestly don't know if I ever can ever bear to be that open and honest with anyone else ever again. Losing you -- having you simply throw me away and turn you back -- has torn me apart. It has left this black disease in my heart and my self esteem is about as low as it could be. That's how fucked up this whole thing is. I should be mad at you, i should blame you.... but I can't. I hope everytime my phne rings that it's you to tell me you're sorry. I simply do not want to believe that you -- that you that I knew and loved and trusted -- could turn into this person you apparently are now.
If someone like you could turn on me, become so cold..... then I don't believe I could ever let anyone else in again. I am sealing the holes n my heart, barricading all doors, and hoping I can make it through this storm.
How does one simply stop caring? overnight?
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