Blink 182: Adam's Song

I love this song, and not just because my name's in the title. ;-)

I love that they bravely took on the topic of depression and suicide ideation. 

I think that sometimes just having one's feelings acknowledged can make all the difference.

There's no shame in seeking help.

I struggled with depression and suicide ideation into my forties. The depression still comes on at times but I've learned to cope with it better and it seems to resolve more quickly. I don't take medications. I think learning good coping skills is key, but I would certainly never put down anyone who feels that they need medication. Taking medication in no way makes you a weak person.

One size does not fit all, each of us needs to find the way that works!

Love,

DJ Adam

If I'm Living on Borrowed Time, Do You Think I'm Gonna Waste My Time Conforming?

Current age: 62 and has no memories of his accomplishments or his family and friends.
Age at onset of dementia: 55 (and fuck you, Universe)

Lewy Body Dementia discovered post-suicide Age: 63

The Real Cie's aunt: probable Lewy Body Dementia, age of diagnosis: 72

Me: Age 49, will be 50 on February 15.

TRIGGER WARNING: DISCUSSION OF SUICIDE IDEATION

Here's what I'm noticing. This kind of shit seems to be happening in younger and younger people. I'm not a scientist. Nor am I particularly given to believing in conspiracy theories. The Illumin-Naughty seem as likely to exist as the Illuminati, as far as I'm concerned. But I do see a pattern.

I think our world is polluted as fuck, and it's killing us in various and horrible ways. I think all the people succumbing to these shitty forms of dementia have been poisoned by our toxic environment, and it isn't going to get any better anytime soon.

I evidently have a genetic trigger for this shit, and I have been thinking. I may be living on borrowed time. And if I am, I'm going to off myself when I get the diagnosis. I've taken care of people with dementia for all but five years since 1988. I am not putting myself or my son through that shit.

Given that there's a fair possibility that I'm living on borrowed time, do you know what the fuck I'm not going to do?

Care about a bunch of rules set down by a bunch of stodgy, imagination-impaired, heartless, inflexible assholes. 

Believe as I do. Don't believe as I do. I really don't care. But don't fucking tell me how to think and feel. I was never going to conform to your standards anyway. Given that I may only have five or ten years left, I'm going to conform to them even less.

I have an open mind about metaphysical possibilities. I'm not going to close my mind because my beliefs make some people uncomfortable.

I love what and who I love. If you have a problem with that, take a look in the damn mirror as you point your finger at me. Then take a look at the three fingers pointing back at you.

I'm actually not afraid of this possibility. I'm pretty stoic about it. I've had suicide ideation pretty much all my life. I'm not afraid to die. My life hasn't been an easy one. Sometimes I think the easiest thing in the world would be to down a whole bunch of pills with a butt ton of alcohol and just let the world fuck off at last. I'm sick and tired of hearing what a fuckup I am echoing in my damn head all the time.

I'm not doing it today. So don't get your hackles up searching my URL to try and find out where I'm located. This isn't a "right now" suicide note. This is a "if I'm diagnosed with dementia I'm offing myself" note. Because fuck that shit.

So anyway, if I believe in the possibility of ghosts and incarnate people communicating with each other and maybe even becoming friends or falling in love, who the fuck is anyone else to tell me I can't believe that? 

If I believe the personality survives the death of the body, who the fuck is anyone to tell me I can't believe that?

If I believe in an afterlife, but not an afterlife that adheres to some particular set of dogma created by a bunch of stodgy old fucks to control the masses, well, that is what I believe. If it brings you comfort to think of me frying in a fiery pit because of my beliefs, perhaps you're the sick fuck, not me. 

If I believe in reincarnation, how the fuck is that hurting you?

People are always so all-fired hot to tell other people what they should and shouldn't think and feel. I've had it up to here with that shit. None of us knows for sure what happens after we die. My theories are as valid as anyone else's. More to the point, I don't shove them down anybody's throat. 

I guess my point is this. I don't know if I'm living on borrowed time or not, but I damn well could be. Do you think I'm gonna waste that time trying to please anybody by conforming to their particular reality? I can't live your damn reality, nor do I want to. I can only live my own. 

Stop trying to tell other people what to believe, think and feel. As long as what you're doing isn't hurting anybody else, it's nobody's damn business.

One thing I aim to do. When I do get to the other side, whenever that is, I am going to give both of the dudes pictured a great big warm hug, because they both touched my life for the better and both pulled me through when I was a very sad, lonely, and bullied teenager. I wished both of them could be my friends.

I totally shipped "Mork" as my best platonic friend back in the day, and you will never guess which band was Mork's and my favorite. When you're a sad and miserable twelve or thirteen year old, that kind of thing can mean a lot.

When people judge another person's reality based on their own set of experiences, they do the person they're judging a great disservice.

Both Malcolm Young and Robin Williams taught me a lot. The biggest thing they taught me is that having compassion is the most important thing. As neither of them are conventionally attractive, they also taught me that true beauty is in the soul. Not that either of them are ugly, but neither of them would ever be considered "hunky" by any stretch of the imagination.

Both of them struggled with depression and addiction issues. These are certainly things to which I can relate. 

These are beautiful people--truly beautiful people, not Hollywood hyped beautiful on the outside hollow on the inside glamour seeking glory grabbers. If I do end up being one of the many succumbing to the horror of dementia, at least I will know I am in glorious company. I love you Mal, and I love you Robin. And I do not give one single fuck what anyone thinks of that statement.

I guess I've said what I need to say. It pretty well boils down to this. Quit fucking judging. You do not know what another person is going through or what they have been through. Since you haven't experienced their life, you aren't qualified to judge it.

I can't live as if there's no tomorrow, because my Last Day may be here sooner than I ever would have imagined. I have to get what I can done in what time I may have left. I'm not wasting that time conforming to anyone else's bullshit standards.

~Cie~

My Friend Mork

July 21 1951 - August 11 2014

The post below is simply a cut and paste of responses, one made as a comment on a blog post, one made as a reply to a comment on a blog post created by two Team Netherworld teammates. I wanted to share these thoughts of mine to illustrate what Robin Williams, and specifically his character Mork, meant to a troubled young woman in need of a friend.

I was eighteen and started my one semester living in a dorm at C.U. Boulder in 1978. I had a very hard time adjusting. I drank a lot and did drugs. I was sexually assaulted by an acquaintance. I ended up attempting suicide.

Robin Williams' funny portrayal of Mork helped me heal more than counseling did. I loved Mork. I felt like he wouldn't have judged me. I daydreamed about him being my friend. Not my boyfriend, but a platonic friend. I wished that Mork could be real. I sometimes drove past the Mork and Mindy house.

I don't know how I couldn't have seen that Robin was suffering from depression. He was one of my favorite people. I know there's nothing I could have done. I just feel a bit ashamed for being so oblivious.

http://thewildpomegranate.com/2014/08/12/when-the-wild-things-cry-part-ii

I survived a suicide attempt made at the age of 18. I wasn’t treated as badly as some friends have reported being treated when being placed on a psychiatric unit, which is pretty amazing for the time (1978.) However, I did feel like I was condescended to and viewed as less than human.

My first introduction to Robin Williams was the same as for many people, the Mork and Mindy TV show. I was a lonely young lady and I sometimes daydreamed that it would be wonderful if Mork could be my real life friend. I had a pair of rainbow suspenders to try to remind me to see the positive things in life. I cried and cried when I heard of Robin’s passing. How could I have no idea that someone who meant so much to me, even if I didn’t know him, was suffering so? The tears of a clown, I suppose.

http://dothedead.wordpress.com/2014/08/12/the-netherworld-welcomes-robin-williams-and-a-little-angel

Mork and Robin forever reside in the Netherworld and in my heart.

Love always,

DJ Dolly

Instrumental/Ambient Playlist

This is the playlist to help take the edge off the gloom and depression I've been feeling for several weeks now.

I've had a mood disorder for long enough that I know this will lift when it lifts and I can't make it go away. But I can make peace with it. If I don't fight it, if I ask why it's here, if I listen to it, if I let it be.

~DJ Tempest~

Cross-Post to:

KHEL 666

Crazy Town in Looney Land

A to Z Blogging Challenge: M is for Music and Mental Illness

A to Z Blogging Challenge: 

M is for Music and Mental Illness

by

Illsa Gorrey

Hello, everybody. This is going to get kind of ranty, so before I start, I'll just say this. Anyone who reads the Undead in the Netherworld blog consistently knows that we utilize music a fair bit on our posts. You will also notice that a lot of the soundtrack music is hard rock and metal. That's because our stories are more metal than everybody's! ;-)

Winky face so nobody gets all butt hurt and bent out of shape. 

KHEL 666 is our Multimedia blog, so we feature a lot of music there. A lot of that is hard rock and metal too.

We sometimes use music to drive a point home or to illustrate what we're feeling on Crazy Town in Looney Land (one of our Dropout Loser Quitter Blogs that didn't finish the A-Z Challenge.)

We might feature music occasionally on Poetry of the Netherworld. Because music is, after all, poetry in an instrumental setting.

This entry is going to be cross-posted over all of those blogs. Lazy? Whatever. We have other projects and problems. Sometimes we get lazy.

So before I start the rant, here is a playlist of relaxing music. This is the kind of music we listen to while editing, trying to meditate, or just because. We're eclectic here.

"You sound angry, Illsa. So you're not going to whip out the Death Metal on our asses?"

Nope. Not today.

Everyone involved with this series of blogs has a mental illness of one variety or another. Most of the participants have bipolar disorder. We met culling through mental health sites and found each other. Not all of our team members participate in the blogs very often. We have kind of a core group who are frequent participants. You'll see a lot of Tempest, a fair bit of me and Lily. Opal has been fairly active this month as well. Cie Cheesemeister is generally in the background, editing or creating her photoshop images. She doesn't directly post very often these days.

We are all broken people. We are not your happy go lucky chasing dreams and love types. That ship done sailed long ago, that train done left town. We are older, we have been abused, we realize that dreams don't tend to come true for people like us. We're waiting to die, we're just trying to make it more interesting while we wait.

I have discovered that I really hate certain words. Don't give me the "they're just words" schpiel. Let me call you a cuntbag and tell you "it's just a word." But think for a minute what your immediate reaction to being called a cuntbag is. Yeah, words have power. It's one of the reasons why bullying is so destructive. So let's put the "they're just words" bit to rest right now.

"Lazy" is a word that I hate.

I used to apply it to myself, anytime I was lying around so inert that I could barely get up to do anything. "Get up you lazy, stupid bitch! Get up!" 

I was experiencing severe depression. I knew I was sad and miserable and had "no reason to be." I should have been able to "just get up." Or so I was told.

"Loser" is a word that I hate.

Many people are unable to become successful in life. There is too much onus placed on being some sort of superstar. Not being able to achieve a certain measure of success does not make a person a loser. I think there are plenty of really talented people who never become successful or famous.

"Quitter" is another word that I don't like.

People quit things for a variety of reasons. Maybe they give up too soon, but branding them with a label is never good. Many people have enough negative labels applied to them. Perhaps more like negative millstones. I know that all the negative terms that come to mind for myself weigh heavy on me.

Our M of the day is Music and Mental Illness and an admonition to put yourself in someone else's shoes before you apply a label to them.

Peace.

Flash Friday 55: Sleep Pod

Sometimes hope flies away on ghostly butterfly wings, which have been crushed multiple times.

I want to fly away with hope.

To cocoon myself until it's safe to wake up

And be who I really am.

But I don't think that will ever happen.

Eveyone likes clowns.

No one likes the freak behind the mask.

 

Share your stuff here if you want. It's a writing game by a fellow by the name of G Man, and he does it every Friday.

 

Cross-posted to:

KHEL 666

Torrid Tempest

Undead in the Netherworld

 

Note:

I don't really want to come off as an asshole to people who may be "meeting" me for the first time, but the first one who tells me I "need to be on meds" needs to go jump off a cliff. I've been bipolar probably since I was 10 years old, though I wasn't diagnosed until I was 38. I don't need any armchair psychologists trying to analyze me when I'm expressing myself during what happens to be a drop on the mood disorder roller coaster, thank you very much.

To those who might have appreciated the work, sorry for the defensiveness. It's something that I've unfortunately become rather accustomed to.

 

Favorite Musicians of the Netherworld: Bon Scott

9 July 1946 – 19 February 1980

I was just 15 years old when Bon Scott died. It devastated me. AC/DC was my favorite band, and let me confess a little something to you. I loved Bon. Yeah, I know how cheesy that sounds, but I did.

Talk about a match that never would have worked out in reality, that would have been it. But I loved him anyway. I had always been a good Catholic girl, but when I hit my teens, I started to go a little wild.

I wasn't wild with boys, contrary to popular rumors that I had eight abortions by the time I was fourteen. No, seriously, that was a rumor spreading around about me. I don't know how it started, because I was incredibly naïve about sex. I thought a blow job was blowing in someone's ear, and I wondered why the hell anyone would find that activity enjoyable.

I knew how babies were made, but I was scared to death of doing the act that made babies. I didn't want a baby, and I had heard that it hurt like hell to have sex the first time. (At this point I still believed that pain with sex for women was because of Eve and the original sin, and I hated the bitch for it. What I didn't admit was that I was also pissed off at God for being such a douchebag as to do this to women because of Eve being an asshole. Believe me, I was very indoctrinated.) Nonetheless, I did daydream about doing said act with Bon Scott, and I figured I was going to hell, but I liked him (and AC/DC's music) so much that I figured my immortal soul was a small price to pay.

When I found out that Bon had died, I walked through the little Peyton Place town that was home to me and my misery, feeling terribly lost. Nobody in that town understood me. My parents didn't understand me either. I felt like I was an alien who had been lost from another planet and ended up in this fucking miserable place. I was very bullied and very lonely, and I felt like I'd just lost the love of my life. Well, I had, though he didn't know he was.

Bon was known as a nice guy, even if he was a bit of a randy sort. I would dream about him sometimes. I like to think that maybe he felt a little sympathy for a silly, unhappy girl who had a huge crush on him. Maybe he wanted to show me that I had a friend after all. Who knows. The older I get, the less I know.

Though Brian Johnson is fabulous and I can't imagine anyone else filling Bon's shoes, there will never be another Bon Scott. He was one of those people that just can't be imitated. I think one reason Brian worked out so well is because he wasn't trying to imitate Bon. He was just trying to do the best damn job he could.

Brian believes that Bon came to him one night in spirit and stayed for about an hour, helping him finish the songs he was struggling to write. He has said that he doesn't like to talk about this much, because people think he's crazy when he tells this tale. I don't. But I am kinda crazy.

So today, if we'll have a moment of silence for...

Nah, that's not the way we do it in the Netherworld!

If we'll turn it up to 666 and drive down the Highway to Hell, that's the way to honor Bon Scott in a fitting way!

Ronald Belford Scott: Never imitated, never forgotten. Rock in peace!

What Love Feels Like

Yeah--so fuck that shit.

Tired Of

Posted by The Anonymous Art of Revolution on Facebook.

I know this feeling very well. I've never been one of The Beautiful People. I'm an outcast. In the United States, I don't encounter much racism, because I'm white. But, I'm White Trash. I'm also one of THEM. You know, the crazies, the sickos, the mentally ill.

I'm one of THEM, but you probably wouldn't know it. I'm not likely to make the news, unless its the obituaries because my disease finally won. I won't make the news for shooting up a movie theatre like a selfish fucking jackass, or shooting up people from a clock tower like a stupid fucking sociopath with no consciense, or for committing serial murders like a twisted fucking shithead. 

I, like the majority of people with mental illness, am no more dangerous than the average person. I am in fact more likely to be a victim than to be a predator.

Physically, I'm in my mid forties. Emotionally, I'm not an adult. I can hold a job, but the conditions have to be right or I'll sink into a severe depressive state. I'm a "loser" with a menial job, because that's what I can handle. I have a fairly high I.Q., but I'll never be able to excel in the usual ways.

Love, romance, and sex are difficult areas for me to navigate, so I choose to avoid them. I tend to attract predators who don't give a shit if they hurt me as long as they get some pussy, and broken people who might not mean to hurt me but they will. People like drug addicts. If I'm attracted to a guy, it means he's just wrong, so it's better if I stay away.

The character John Coffey is a truly beautiful person, not a glamorous person. I think that Michael Clarke Duncan seemed like a beautiful person too in his way. I liked him. Shine on, Big Man!

Love,

Illsa

Federacja- gadanie stracha na wróble

I think my foul mood is turning around. Even though I can't understand a word of it, playing songs from Poland has raised my spirits. Whatever gets you through, that's what I say! So long as it isn't hurting anyone else.

Nobody Hears

So Not Gonna Happen

That is so not me. And I refuse to feel guilty about it any more. I was never the cute, bubbly chick. I've always worn my heart on my sleeve. 

I've survived sexual assault. I've survived abusive relationships. I've survived mental illness, which is a so far so good thing. One of these days it may best me. For now I'm getting along.

Some girls always smile even when their heart is broken. I get devastated to the core. Which is why I don't open my heart any more.

And that is my fucking prerogative.

Blast Off!

Hi there, fellow geeks and geekettes! My Posterous blog has just launched, and now I'm part of the Writing Sisters in Space! I'm also part of the KHEL 666 team, the greatest online "radio" blog and page.

I seem to be coming out of a period of bipolar mania where I really could not accomplish anything of worth because my mind was all over the place. People who don't have bipolar think that mania would be fun. Nothing is further from the truth. Mania sucks just as much as depression in its own peculiar way. Either one can make it very hard to be productive.

My plans for the day involve a brief morning hike, and then maybe, at last, some writing that doesn't sound like complete gobbledygook.

To infinity and beyond!

Cried Way Too Many

Not Really A Social Butterfly

Hi, I'm Petra. I'm mentally ill. I was in such a severe state of depression for the past year and eight months that I didn't log onto the Internet at all except to check email. I wished that I'd die every day, but the fucking Universe is keeping me around for a reason.

Some of you have heard of the infamous KHEL 666 online radio station. I've been invited to be one of their DJ's, and I think that's super cool. They have a blog and a Facebook page, so you can check them out.

I'm usually a pretty nice person, but if provoked, I can be a real asshole. I don't much care what anyone thinks about me. I've never been pretty or popular. I'm fat. That's something that tends to happen with age. If you don't like it, shove it. I don't need to jump on the fucking Weight Watchers bandwagon and Slim Fast sucks. So what if men don't think I'm hot or women get catty about my old school goth chick big girl shirts that I love to wear. Bite me.

Also, you're telling me I'm fat "for my health?" Bitch, please. Do you also think I'm stupid? You don't think I look in the mirror and see "fat?" You think that just because I have mental problems I'm delusional and think I look like Angelina Jolie? I love Angelina, but she looks like Angelina. I look like Petra. 

But but but fat causes high bloods pressure and teh diabeetus and teh hart diseez and teh arthuritus.

I'm fifty years old, you silly twat waffle. My age increses the risk of those things. People of all sizes get those things. 

Maybe unhealthy food increses the risk of those things. It isn't only fat people who eat unhealthy food.

If you think I sit around eating all day, I don't. A lot of the time when I'm depressed I can't eat. But I'm still fat.

But you won't get a man if you're fat.

I also won't get a man because sometimes I sink into depressions that last for almost two years, so I have a hell of a time holding a job or even cleaning house. Sometimes its hard for me to even get out of bed. You think any man wants that?

Anyway, unless George Harrison is coming back from the Great Beyond riding on his unicorn to take me off to Strawberry Fields Forever, or Peter Steele is knocking at my door dressed all in black and carrying a black rose and some flavored massage oil, I ain't interested.

So that's me. I'm Petra. You can call me Pet. I'll be your friend, but I'm not your pet. You'd have to work pretty hard for that privilege!

Peace.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wish I could Sail Away

I am very depressed. I wish I could just wander into the ocean and be gone from this stupid world.

West End Girls

Check out Pet Shop Boys – West End Girls http://www.last.fm/music/Pet+Shop+Boys/_/West+End+Girls via @lastfm

"Sometimes you're better off dead

There's a gun in your hand, and it's pointing at your head."

There is a reason why I don't have guns in my house.

Days like this past one, I'd be way too tempted to use it on myself.

Some might be glad of that, and I wouldn't want to give them the satisfaction.

Yes, Yes, No, Yes

I can smile though I feel like crying

I can fight, though I don't really feel like it

I'll keep living although dying seems easier

But I'll be damned if, at almost fifty years old and nothing but failed relationships with people at least as fucked up as I am if not more so, and psychic vampires, emotional abusers, and predators, and even one that raped me, I will ever again do that "love" crap. Fuck that shit.

I love my son, I love my animals, I love what few friends I have even though they are far away, and I love my annoying family.

Romantic love, as far as I am concerned, is the biggest fucking crock of shit in the Universe. It worked out for you? Great, but that isn't the norm. Don't try to shove it down my throat that I "need" a romantic/sexual partner to be complete. That's straight up crap right there.

Bitter? Why yes, I am. And it is not your business to tell me not to be.