I Lied

It kept me up a good part of the night.

I said I didn't want to help. But I did. I do. I just.... can't anymore.

And then I began to worry. Will he be ok? He won't do anything stupid will he?

Then I just try to remember that he's the one who didn't want me in his life. He's a big boy. He's got his family and all those car buddies (ahem) that he made toward the end of our relationship. I mean... we were best friends and he sent me a message clear and strong that he didn't need me or my friendship or my love. He chose this life.

The guilt will wear off in a couple days I suppose. I just wonder when the compassion and lingering annoying love will.

How Come

That after all this time of saying yes unconditionally and then being broken hearted at feeling used and unappreciated and taken for granted does it still hurt when I finally learn to say no?

I guess it's because part of me just wants to believe in higher ideals. That the good guys always win, that people that you love will never stop caring, and that people, in their very marrow are good and fair and honest and just. I want to believe that I leave an indelible mark in people's lives long after I'm gone the way people do in mine.

I'm exhausted. And I wish I could be cold hearted and disconnected. I wish I didn't feel so pathetic about still caring. I wish I could see it as a strength, as a lingering proof that what I felt was real. I just keep coming back to this Fiona song where she's talking about hooking up with an ex and she wonders why she did it and then she sings "I guess I just really loved him, I guess that's it."

And I did. And I always will. Diminished, yes. But I will. Nothing changes that. I can still see the man I loved, I can still his perfections and his flaws. But time and distance has made me see that it wasn't meant to be. I want to leave an indelible mark.

I'm rambling in exhaustion and emotional drainage (does that even make sense?) Time to go to bed to rise in 7.5 hrs to work my ass off again. but then the week will be easy and short and I can finally have time to slow down (I haven't had a day where I haven't worked or drove or been running errands in oh, three weeks?) and think and reaccess and reprioritize and honestly, I just want sometime to feel accomplished and proud. I conquered some real fears lately and have had great success and feel alive(although albeit always exhausted!) and exuberant and filled with light. I feel proud and happy and although tired it's that good tired you get after working your ass off and seeing the results. I've done good. And I deserve to reflect on that.

But yeah.... how come?

Exhaustion.

Tonight I got outta work at a normal time and still I'm just fried. I have so many things I know I should be doing book-promotion wise but I'm just totally 100% spent. Tomorrow I need to get as much done as possible so that I can come in insanely early Sat. morning to get payroll for next week done so I can jump in my car and drive to NYC for Friendsgiving and my show at the Bowery. I know I haven't been keeping up my blog due to sheer exhaustion and lack of time but omg I'm tired. :)

The good news is that the next few days are going to be INSANE and then by the time I leave work on Wednesday I'll have FOUR DAYS to sit on my ass, not drive anywhere, and just look at my book promo plans and re-evaluate and figure out where to go from here. I can't wait. I feel like I've been frantic, spacey, distracted, and a bit delirious since I got back from upstate. No. Since I arrived upstate. haha. And i think my friends that have talked to me can attest to that! I can be a bit ditzy, yes, but lately I'm just..... omg... so scattered.

And yeah it's rough. I worry that at work I look like a slightly hysterical mess and I worry that I'm missing out on key opportunities for my book. But I think I'm ok. I'm pissed that I won't have my new editions to sell at the poetry club but I'm going to sell post cards vouchers then send out the books free of cost. It doesn't cost that much to mail out books if I do them book rate and if it saves a sale..... Still sucks though. But what can I do? I sold out two weeks ago!

So yeah I guess I'm doing ok. Work has been long and challenging but I think I've been handling it ok. Been working my ass off and I do take pride in that. I am just too hard on myself and lately I've been super irritable and grouchy -- trying to cut down on smoking, I've got PMS, (sorry if TMI), and I've never had a day to just rest and do nothing since I came here. My mom tells me on a daily basis that she thinks I'm brave and I think that my hard work and insane schedule has won some respect with my friends. We'll see. I guess it all comes down to two things to make me feel successful in the coming week -- finishing payroll Sat. and aceing my show at the BPC -- which psssst I'm hardly prepared for. That's what Sunday before the show will be spent doing. And probably Sat. night. Writing, reading, etc. I've got a basic script together and know what I want to do but the material isn't nailed down yet. Which worries me because I am always so prepared about such things. But I'll be fine, I have total confidence in that.

So it's ok, I'll let the to do list get a bit longer, I'll cut myself some slack. I'll continue to work hard and run on fumes and next week..... once the dust settles.... I"ll re-set. The catch 22 is that it's the holiday season which means it's the perfect time to promote a book and the worst. Competition is high and the dates available to do readings, etc is limited. People are out of town... etc. So I'm going to try to get some gigs around here in the next month but otherwise I'm just going to reset for January.

:)

PS I've also started talking to myself more. Well, maybe it's just because my cats aren't around for me to talk to.

The Most Amazing Week Ever

As I write this I am lying on my bed in my rented apartment/motel room in Gloucester, Mass. I've been here for a week as of tomorrow morning and I seriously can't believe how fast these past few days have gone by. I'm so very very tired but I keep getting all these messages from people asking how I am and how things have been going that I felt I really should write.

I don't even know where to start. A week ago yesterday, I was hired to work on this movie Hatteras Hotel in Gloucester, Mass. It's about 30 miles north of Boston on Cape Ann, right on the water. I would love to tell you how beautiful is but I haven't really had a chance to see much! I arrived early afternoon last Tuesday (I was supposed to start Monday but I postponed so I could do Stained Glass Confessional at Stain with my AMAZING and talented friends -- it was SOOOO worth it!) after getting up at 6 am, cabbing it to Penn, taking the Acela into Boston, cabbing it from one end of Boston to the other, the taking a commuter train to Gloucester. I walked into my new production office and they handed me a wad of cash (per diem money), gave my keys to my new apartment (also comped), and keys to my ... yes.... CAR. Yes. So any of you who know me and my fear of driving you're going to find these next few paragraphs pretty darn interesting. :) I almost wish Moshe didn't hate my guts JUST so I could tell him how I've been driving around and conquered my fears. But anyway, I digress.

So I spend the day working and getting to know my new office-mates. Then 6 pm rolls around and I am soooooo tired I can barely think. Dragging my luggage out to the parking lot, I clutched my keys in one hand and a Google map in the other. I squeezed the key chain and the lights of a brand new silver Subaru winked at me. I got in and my jaw dropped. It's not fancy or anything and yes, I am easily impressed but I have a kick ass stereo, a turbo thingie, and a sun/moon roof (just what you need in New England in the fall haha). I then proceeded to shake as I was driving down the dark back roads from the office complex toward the roar of 128. I was so freaked out! And then came the rotary. I knew it was coming but it was dark and there was so much traffic and I was so tired and scared that I drove on and immediately drove off haha! I was supposed to go around to come around the other side of 128 to head north away from my office but just ended up heading further down 128 cursing and shaking to ANOTHER rotary where I proceeded to spin around that and missed my exit and ended up in a parking lot of Friendly's trembling and convinced I was never ever ever going to find my hotel. After a big meal and some cola, I called my friends, got some courage, and ventured out again. Only to get lost AGAIN. After somehow driving around in circles I found my way to 127 to my place. It's huge and beautiful and awesome!. Gigantic closet, big windows, sleeper sofa, desk, full kitchen, large bedroom, GIGANTIC bathroom. I park my car outside the door! NO 4th floor walk up! It's insane. ANd there's a huge grocery store/shopping center literally one minute form my house. I could walk it if I wasn't afraid of getting smacked out on the dark and sidewalk-less road. :)

So yeah, it's great. I found work easily the next day (and the drive through Dunkin Donuts next to my house) and then worked all day (the job is EASY and the people I work with are super nice) and got lost on my way home. The next day (Thursday) I actually made it home without getting lost and I was so excited I walked in my door, dropped my purse on the desk and said loudly, even though no one could hear, "honey I'm home! I fucking did it!" No more getting lost and feeling like a meth-addicted square dancer or some shit. Swinging my partner round and round and getting dizzy on the Gloucester rotaries!

And now I'm too tired to write more so tune in tomorrow :) I haven't even talked about my road trip or my book signing yet.....

Cry For Help (New Article)

Cry for Help
By Janice Brabaw


It was my first night back to school after Spring Break although outside my dorm at St. Lawrence it didn’t look anything like spring. Snow was falling from the night sky in wet soggy clumps against the windows of the third floor lounge. I’m not sure how long I sat in that cold, drafty room watching the storm, listening to the howling North Country winds. One moment it was early afternoon and then it was dark, the street lamp outside casting an orange glow through the moist cottony swirl. I hadn’t moved, seemingly never blinked. I’d hear voices in the hall as my floor-mates carried their bags up the stairs and into their rooms. Life so close and so vibrant but yet out of sight, detached. And there I sat. Long after the sunset, long after the room faded to black. My eyes unfocused, staring into the white haze outside, lost and lethargic.

It was that night that it happened. March 22, 1998. The night I first tried to kill myself. I was six days past my nineteenth birthday.

The circumstances leading up to the overdose and the four others that would follow in the next five years were the same, a chicken or the egg scenario: I’d been rejected romantically and I was crippled by depression. Whether my moods had resulted in being dumped or vice versa, it became impossible to figure out what had precipitated what. Things had been blurry, water-colored, misty, and faded for weeks. Then the ache and the falling into depths. The loss of self, the endless seepage of energy, the flattening and the blue black bruising of my spirit. Either I was going crazy and then he left me or I knew he was going to leave me and I went crazy anyway.

Every moment of every day was trying and painful. I was confused, exhausted, and completely drained of pleasure and the desire to live. I had become a person I didn’t recognize – a shell of my former self. I had become a pathetic, codependent burden on those around me. My limited coping skills were exceeded by my pain and I was a desperate, frantic woman only wanting to stop hurting. As I wrote in my journal at the time, I was convinced I was chronically and intrinsically messed up on a basic, chromosomal level that could never be altered. I was a twisted and ugly doll destined for the Island of Misfit Toys.

After spending a week in the ICU being treated for acute Tylenol overdose, I had to tell my family what had happened. My parents were shocked and sad, scared and angry.
Part of me was annoyed and puzzled by their surprise. To me, my suicide attempt felt like surrendering to the inevitable while everyone around me were blind-sided. No one knew I had been thinking about death for years. In fact I had written my first suicide note at eight years old.


Recently I published my first book, Universe, Disturbed, which is a collection of poetry lifted directly from my high school and college journals – a first-hand account of what I was going through during these dark years. I was nervous about sending copies to my parents. While they knew I was a moody and irritable child, they never suspected my tidal nature ran any deeper than the usual growing pains and hormonal fluctuations of a normal teenager until my suicide attempts and subsequent diagnoses. They didn’t know the darkness I carried inside me as a child partially because I strove to keep my depression a secret. I was afraid they’d judge me, consider me weak and pathetic. Even more frightening was the thought of my two loving parents who always had done their best for me thinking that it was their fault; that they could have prevented these years of self-destruction. Who could blame them? Despite my secrecy, many signs that I was in trouble are now as clear as day – in hindsight. The reason my parents, my teachers, my friends and even I missed them is due more to a lack of education than a lack of compassion.

Even today, even with depression in the media and the stigma of diagnoses rapidly fading due to public awareness, people have a hard time contemplating childhood or adolescence depression. Or even worse, suicide.

The National Society for the Prevention of Suicide’s statistics finds that that 4,212 teenagers took their own lives in 2005 (the most recent year data is available). The same year, 272 children under twelve committed suicide. Although unpleasant to consider, suicide is the number five cause of death for children between five and twelve and number three in teenagers and people in their early 20’s. These numbers do not take into account how many young people tried to end their lives but failed. Or kids who are suffering and untreated who might eventually try later down the road. Suicide rates rose six percent in fifteen to nineteen year olds between 1999 and 2001 – and 100 percent in those aged ten to fourteen, following a continuing trend the NSPS has been documenting for years.

It’s true that the hormonal changes in adolescence and the stress of school and friends does lead to a certain amount of emotional turbulence, but the line between occasional sullen moods and self-destructive behavior is easily crossed – the center of the brain that controls impulsivity isn’t fully developed until the mid to late twenties. Combine flawed mental processes and the inability to make calm, rational decisions and you have a recipe for disaster. The situation appears even direr when considering this is the time when many teenagers start experimenting with drugs and alcohol. Untreated, undiagnosed depressed teens are in danger. They are hurting. Many times they are ignored or simply not noticed. And as the statistics demonstrate, more and more die needlessly every year.

It is during these turbulent years that a majority of mental illnesses initially present. According to research, people with depression or other psychological conditions and/or substance abuse commit 90 percent of suicides. It is more important than ever for society to educate themselves about the warning signs.

For me, I was a cutter. I would spend my nights locked in my room with just a razor and my journal. Sobbing and cutting, I’d alternate between writing poetry and slicing my forearms. I would hide the damage under long sleeves. I learned to cry when no one was around. My constant fatigue and reluctance to go to school was attributed to laziness, your usual teenage sloth. My weight continued to balloon throughout high school due to the late-night binges, long after my parents were in bed. I snapped and crackled and popped around our house – always irritable and ready to cry and scream at the most innocent comment. Instead of running toward people for help, I ran away. Seething, cutting, crying, hiding. I didn’t think there was any hope and I didn’t think there was anyone I could talk to.

Unfortunately for me, it took almost a decade and nearly dying at twenty-three to learn to open up about my depression, my borderline personality disorder. It took me until twenty-seven to admit that yes, I do need to take medication every day to calm my anxiety disorder and to ward off crippling panic attacks. I’m almost thirty and sometimes I feel cheated for the years I lost and whenever I have bad days. I get sick of having to apologize and explain myself. The fact is that I’m more sensitive than most people and that while I don’t want those around me to feel like they need to walk on egg shells, I am careful who I bring into my life. It is important to surround yourself with loving, supportive people who understand that sometimes its necessary to be extra patient and perhaps more vigilant in speaking up if I’m being erratic. It’s a fine line that I cross often – asking people in my life to keep an eye on my moods because sometimes I’m the last to realize I’m heading downward.

Living with mental illness has gotten easier over the years due to therapy, medication, and my writing, but also through trial and error and the benefit of growing older, of acquiring wisdom. Benefits you do not have when you’re young and just feeling the initial symptoms, the first surge and purge of emotions that you can’t rationalize. This is why it’s important to know where to go for help and just as crucial for parents and friends to be aware of the symptoms.

I’m sure my parents kick themselves when they flip through my poetry. My father, never an outwardly emotional man, told me on the phone, “Your book is hard to read. It’s some sad stuff. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

Uncomfortably shifting my cell from one ear to another, I stepped onto the street outside my apartment in Brooklyn. Four hundred miles north, in the living room of our farmhouse, I could hear the pain in his voice. I wanted it to go away. “It’s ok, Dad. It’s fine. It’s in the past. It’s not your fault.

“I guess we just…” In the background I could hear the tv. A bus whirled by, and I paused at the corner. “I guess we just didn’t know. We were too wrapped up in our own troubles.”

I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me. As uncomfortable as we felt, I was happy that were having this conversation – albeit a bit late - instead of my parents finding my dead body and a suicide note that no matter how long or well-thought out could never truly explain a thing. For years I envisioned my suicide as the final act in a Shakespearian tragedy, an event so grand and dramatic that only then could people understand how much pain I had been in. I felt that no one would “get it” until I was cold and pale and so very gone, lying in a wooden box. I thought that nothing could convey the agony I felt except my death. But I was wrong. It’s in the continuing to live, to struggle, to slip and slide through life, to ride the ups and downs and to write and speak about it that I can say the most. Where I can elaborate, grow and reflect instead storming out of the room screaming and closing the door and the dialogue forever.

I’d made it through somehow. Many others don’t. I wish I could reach out to every suicidal kid and say, “it won’t always be this way.” But I realize that they have no reason to believe me. Just as I didn’t believe anyone who tried to convince me of the same. You have to keep trying anyway. The alternative is too tragic and sad and wasteful to not.


Side Bar:

Early Warning Signs of Depression:

- Changes in Activity or Energy Level – either sleeping too much or sleeping too little, intense bursts of energy or extended periods of lethargy and fatigue. Loss of pleasure in activities the person used to enjoy. Withdrawing socially.

- Unexplained pains, aches

- Weight loss or gain accompanied with the corresponding change in appetite

- Slowing of movement, loss of agility, a feeling of being in “slow motion”

- Prolonged sadness with no specific cause or perhaps an over-reaction to an event that ordinarily would not illicit such a dramatic reaction

- Unexplained and extended periods of crying

- Guilt, feelings of worthlessness. Feeling that the person is hopeless, helpless, pathetic, worthless, a burden to others

- Loss of self-esteem

- Mood swings and overdramatic reactions – irritability, anger, anxiety, cynicism, ambivalence, frustration, putting oneself down

- Inability to concentrate, shortened attention span, problems in school or work, disorganization, feeling of distraction

- Feelings and thoughts about death or perhaps just “escape” in some vague, indefinite sense. Feeling detached or already “dead” in their body

- Other red flags – self cutting or otherwise burning or harming oneself, self-destructive behavior – promiscuity, drugs, drinking, getting in trouble with the law or in school, “acting out,” and other reckless behavior.

If you suspect that you or a loved one might be depressed, it’s important to bring in reinforcements. Seek out a family member, teacher, or counselor that you feel comfortable talking to. As hard as it may be, try to be as honest and open as you can. No one can help you if you’re holding back information. If you feel there is no one you can talk to, try calling a suicide prevention hot line in your area or find an online support group. Both of these services are anonymous and can be of great help when you’re feeling really alone. If you still aren’t ready to reach out, find someway to vent your emotions, be it journaling, acting, music, painting, collage making or even something as simple as going for walks. As hard as it is try to avoid staying in bed, over or under eating, alcohol, drugs, and other self-destructive behaviors.

If you are feeling suicidal RIGHT NOW, call someone immediately. If you feel you are going to hurt yourself and don’t know how to stop it, dial 911 and explain. It’s a terrifying place to be and the fear of hospitalization probably isn’t helping, but it’s crucial that you get yourself to a safe place. More than likely at the ER you’d be observed and you’d speak to a psychiatrist who’d allow you to go home once the urge has gone, perhaps with some medication and a follow up appointment. Your safety and your health is the ultimate priority and remember that people love you and want to help you. Don’t be afraid to reach out and ask. As scary and embarrassing as it may feel, trust me, in the long run it’ll be for the best. Think of it as if you were really ill or had been drinking – your thinking isn’t as clear as it should be before you climb behind the wheel to drive. Sometimes we all need someone to take our keys and there’s no shame in that.

Chase Von's Review of Universe, Disturbed

1 of 1 people found the following review helpful:

Chase Von's Review, 10 Stars If I could, Universe, Disturbed Is Disturbing!!!, October 29, 2008

By	Chase von (California) - See all my reviews

Universe, Disturbed is a collection of poetic writings that certainly lives up to its title. Raw, gritty and angry in some places and soft and fine like silk laced with strychnine and resigned in others.

Perhaps the greatest need arguably that people have is to be loved and certainly running neck and neck with that is to be understood. A glimpse into a world so few wish to know intimately and so many of us have unfortunately walked it's depressive paths, is revealed in this collection of in your face memoirs. Although written primarily when the author was quite young, the pains endured are often displayed in an articulate manner far exceeding what one might think possible based on her earthly years. She is certainly reminiscent of both Plath and Sexton.

So many have taken the path which she so aptly writes about but few can capture the despair, the hurts, and the myriad of thoughts the way this promising and very talented writer has. It speaks honestly of the things we perhaps don't want to hear but it also does so in ways that compel the reader on further down into the depths of despair and in so doing, to greater understanding.

I've always felt that people that commit suicide or contemplate it often, really don't want to die, they just want the pain to stop. Having friends and family members who have unfortunately chosen this path, it gives me greater understanding of the phantoms they faced and the demons that plagued their very minds that I imagine they themselves, couldn't articulate so elegantly or as in this authors case at times, so bluntly.

RELASPE -- December 1998.

Wasting away, unblossomed flower
I lay flat, pressed on the bed
crushed by the sadness
invisible weight upon me
holding me down
the sun dropped below the horizon
on me
I lay here blind in darkness
When did I lose myself?
Get so small in a huge world?
So desolate I can't stand it.

Excerpt from Universe Disturbed by Janice Brabaw

I think there are unfortunately armies of young people now in this world that will relate to this. I also think there are a plethora of people out there who might be older but would gain so much understanding into the trials and tribulations faced by our youth. Particularly with the seemingly constant on going of breaking down morals that is rampant and the ever increasing pressure by the media, to propel children into adult situations and lives through fashion and materialism which is robbing them of what so few now get to have; Childhoods.

I think this is an important addition to great literature and also a portal of sorts for those who can't understand, to have a greater understanding of all those who quite frankly feel, either through peer pressure, rejection, or a medical society that seems increasing only capable of throwing pills at the symptoms instead of addressing the root causes of the actual problems.

If you're depressed because you're penniless, that's one thing. If your depressed because you're picked on, harassed or rejected and treated inhumanly by people you wish only loved you and accepted you, then how many are being shoveled pills to dampen the blow of a senselessly cruel world?

A world where if it bleeds it leads and there are wars and rumors of war and people are more accepted if they wear an in date fashion than they are if they actually have a brain. Not to mention the constant pressure to be like the ones that entertainment bombards us all with daily. Anorexic, bulimic, over weight? Kids have always been cruel but now how many of these things wouldn't exist if there was simply more kindness? That's not to discount the fact that many are truly suffering from mental illness, I myself have PTSD, but how many are cured when they don't have mental issues and they really have, this world can truly suck issues?

Fortunately this author has a voice and an outlet through writing and she excels at it. But for those with no outlet so to speak, I think this author represent the silent voices. Both of those who have moved on and hopefully, those who are currently at risk but with greater understanding, might be saved. Many simply by seeing, that someone feels perhaps exactly the same way, that they do.

Chase Von


Your Chance to Hear The Last Panther Speak

Hide & Go Seek

Upstate it’s snowing
I laughingly gave my condolences
As my heat finally roared to life
With the clang of the radiator
In my Brooklyn apartment.

I was so happy to leave my blanket cocoon
So happy I began to cook
Modern appliances whirling
And then darkness

Sudden.

“Fuck!”

The kittens scattered, confused
By my sudden outburst
Scurrying as I cursed, slammed
My way through the rooms
Upturning every place
I could ever think to put a business card

In the black, in the howl
Of the northern wind outside
The rain pelting my windows
I sat at my desk
Held my head
Realized I couldn’t call my super
The number lost
The building empty
And me in the dark.

I somehow lit a candle
Shadows surrounded me
I laid on my couch
And mused how this could be romantic
If only I wasn’t so afraid
To fall and be vulnerable and try

And on I laid
The radiator stopped clanking
My heart raced
Cold settled back in
And I wrapped myself up again
And Eventually I began to cry

I cried of a lost love
I cried for not having someone
Smarter and more able and more brave
To help
My heart is racing and it’s so hard to explain
That sometimes I have no voice
And sometimes everyone has fangs
In the dark, in the howl
It felt ok to be weak
To toss aside my independence
It’s hard to explain
That sometimes I would starve
Rather than go outside
And sometimes I’d rather freeze
Then knock on a door

Somewhere a siren howled
It’s hard to remember
You’re surrounded by millions
When the windows are tightly
Curtained to keep out the drafts

I cried for five minutes
Slow, silent, chilly wetness
From my eyes, down my cheeks
Turning my head
A practiced and perfected motion
Before they tickled my ears

Then I got up
I tripped across the cats
Walking through the empty
I could feel bad
And yes I do but
I could feel worse
But at this time I don’t

I am unloved
I am not in love
I do not feel love
Only cold
And frustration

My eyes begin to adjust
Flames abound
I light more candles
I settle, I phone for pizza
I miss my electric space heater
I miss my ex boyfriend
I miss my mom
I realize it’s the first time
In a long time
I’ve sat this way
Cold dark and alone

I consider my empty bank account
A newly published book
It’s all so ironic
To be someone yet no one
Spending my days trying to convince
Others that I am bigger than I am
That I am smarter
And more beautiful
And more talented
That I string together moments of belief
Wear them like a amulet
Around my neck
To protect me
From those
I want to love me

Chilled bones
Nine o’clock
No internet, dying battery on my phone
A hiss
Growing in fervor
Boiler whispers in my ear
It could be a long night
If I don’t give in to sleep
It could be a long life
If I don’t give in to the hide
And the seek.