Wasted - March 29, 2008

I realize I still owe the final chapter to my manic summer. I would love to give it to you right now, but the truth is, I've got to get the happy back before I can finish it, because it was a funny and happy ending to a funny summer. If I finish it now, while I can't rationalize getting out of bed, it won't read right. I don't know why I can't get out of bed. My father is fine. I guess I've been underestimating how big a support beam good old dad is, because as of late, I have crumbled.

But don't worry about me. Like a bunny, I bounce back.

Since I've been spending a fair amount of time in bed, I've been doing some reading. I bought some black-market Adderall from Mexico recently, and am enjoying it immensely. While it makes a ringing sound in my head and often leaves me with suspicions--the "ninja in the bushes" phenomenon--the upside is significant. I can sit and read, even the most clinical texts, for hours without rest. It is wild. I've read about religion, science, math and history. I've read biographies and comedies and dramas. I've read more in three weeks than I have in years. I've felt...sated.

I've had a shitty life. I've been sick for the majority of it. I've been used and treated like shit by myself and others, and I've been addicted and crazed and blessed with a gene set that is, admittedly, recessive and fucked. Should I be allowed the opportunity to go to the creator, and ask him/her/it to change just one part of myself, to give me relief in one aching, thumping area of this sadistic lump of crap behind my forehead I use to reason my way through life, there would be so many things I could ask for, but I would not hesitate to know the thing I want most...

The ability to read.

I have such a restlessness in me, an unbearable craving for knowledge. I don't know where it came from. I want, want, want to learn and know things, and I cannot read. It is...sick. It is half the reason I am consistently depressed. It is worth buying black-market tablets of Mexican Adderall--and who is certain it's even Adderall?--crushing, snorting and thereby drawing forth horrible memories of Florida--Curacao, frankentits, uncontrolled stupidity and the smell of Hawaiian Tropic tanning oil--for just a few hours of linear thinking and focus, maybe just a few fleeting moments inside the temple of learning I so often find myself outside of, on the wrong side of the gate. I'd do it every day if I could stand it. I'd do it off oiled frankentits. But not in Florida.

I will never go there again.

You may be asking yourself, and rightly so, "How does a girl who cannot read become a writer?" That's a good question, isn't it? I really don't read books. Most of my inspiration comes from television, movies, art and comic books (I like the pictures). But there is one book I can read and read and read, whether I've taken Adderall or not. I've re-read it twice since dad went into the hospital and my brain broke. I found it ten years ago in a Barnes and Noble in San Antonio I stopped into to take an emergency shit. The bright green spine drew me in. On the cover was this bitchy and sad-faced girl with huge eyes, and at her waistline was the word "Wasted." Beneath it were the words "A memoir of Anorexia and Bulimia." Being bulimic--a kook--and a huge believer in fate and the significance of emergency shit stops, I decided that, though I could not read, I would buy this book and give it a shot anyway. It took three months to plow my way through the author, Marya Hornbacher's prose.

It's impossible for me, in common parlance, to explain my connection to this book without typing for days, and I could, quite literally wax Wasted for days, as I've read it no less than fifty times. The book is considered a classic, and it is said that--like all great pieces of art--it is a unique experience for each person who reads it. I imagine that's true, so I won't blabber on about my interpretation. I'll only tell you that upon reading it once, I decided that if I could be as brutally honest about my life as Marya Hornbacher, then it might be worth something to myself or anyone else. I got an ass kicking from a fifty-two pound woman. That's pathetic.

From Wasted:

You no longer face the threat, upon opening the door, of falling head-first in to the white light of silent hours and wild worries, as you pace up and down the hall, sit on the couch while staring out the window at the light coming off the lake, Getting lost in the light and the lack of boundary, sitting there listening to words whistle through your ears, listening to your breath or the wind or the light banging around in the echoing hole in your chest. Forgetting who you are and where you are and if you're there. Getting lost in the thought that you might be imagining everything, you might be dreaming your life. You look at your hand in front of your face, surrounded by light, and your heart thumps as you think: I'm dreaming, I'm not even here, I don't exist. It is too fascinating, the thought that you aren't. The thought that if you watch the lake long enough you might disappear into the white flames of light on the blue, which seem to be just inches from your face. It sucks you in, and you stare, only a little afraid. And then you scream, startled, when your mother comes through the door. You crash back to earth. It's dark. It's evening. You're here and your mother is looking at you and asking, What?

No more of that. Crazy girl. You're losing your marbles. Come in the door, eat. Fill up the space. Keep yourself on the ground.

The book was nominated for the '98 Pulitzer. I don't know which book won the prize that year instead of Wasted, and I'm not going to go snooping around the Internet to find out, for any evidence of its inferiority will certainly cause me to fly into a rage and break things.

Marya's next book, Madness: A Bipolar Life comes out in ten days. I can't wait. I've got my Mexican Adderall crushed and ready to go.

Posted by The Bunny at 7:16 PM

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Comments

She spoke at my college first semester. She's just as abrasive and headstrong as she makes her writing sound. It's refreshing even though I had no relation to the topic of her books. I just liked her personality, it made me respect her as a writer, even if I couldn't relate.

Posted by: Brooke at March 29, 2008 09:22 PM

I couldn't sleep after reading this entry, Buns.

I think this is the first time that I'm actually worried about you.

Posted by: Judi at March 30, 2008 06:49 AM

I don't know what to say. I know what I want to say but I don't know if it would matter or make a difference. You're on my mind right now and I care.

Posted by: Wayland at March 30, 2008 10:29 PM

Sorry to hear you're on a downward swing right now, Bunny.

Watch it with the Adderall, with your history it's almost certain to seriously fuck your brain over - Aggression, Depression, Personality Change and Psychosis are all listed side effects. So is severe fatigue the day after taking it. Also stroke and sudden heart failure.

Be safe Bunny. Why not try a change of scene this week?

Posted by: Argent at March 31, 2008 01:36 AM

Hey Bunny,
I'm very familiar with the dark times where it hurts so much that you don't know how you can possibly get through the WHOLE day. Even though at times, I feel I have no talent, I am still postive about people around me. I don't know how that works but that's a different story.
You're a fine writer.
It seems that the best writers/actors/musicians spend their whole lives battling their demons.
Bunny, please get out of bed soon and fight them.

Posted by: Cloudy at March 31, 2008 07:08 AM

Don't self-medicate...believe me, it's the worst thing you can do. You are so talented. Trust me, there are so many others out there, broken and breaking, just like you. Stay strong.

Another great book is Drinking: A Love Story, by Caroline Knapp. This one brought me out of my own hell.

Posted by: Meg at March 31, 2008 09:16 AM

Don't drink on the addy. It will turn you into pure id, which in your case I'm sure is very volatile and extremely funny/dangerous. Otherwise, I find it exceptional for reading and playing sports. Drink tons of water.

Looking forward to the end of manic summer.

Posted by: Matt at March 31, 2008 01:44 PM

I prayed for you, Bunny.

I'm a depressive, and I had a bummer of a weekend.

Posted by: Doug Puthoff at March 31, 2008 07:14 PM

I sit here by myself
And you know I love it
You know I don't want someone
To come pay a visit

Wake up woo wascally wabbit.
best wishes
colin

Posted by: colin at March 31, 2008 09:24 PM

My friend recently started practicing as a dentist. We were asking him if he'd set a date to kill himself. After joking around, I did some research and found that there isn't much of a correlation between suicide and dentistry. Though there was a small correlation between white male professionals and suicide. Another significant suicide correlation was with white females employed in an artistic profession. So you're probably not alone in your feelings.

Anyway, my unprofessional advice (guys always want to "fix" problems) is to try to embrace the feelings as they come. It sounds retarded, but I think it works to provide perspective. So instead of thinking "I wish I didn't feel so shitty right now" you think "I feel shitty right now. I'm going to embrace this crap feeling and really try to understand what is underneath it."

It's sort of like when you're writing and you hit that streak and you feel great... and you really get into it and go for a ride. Well, do the same thing in this instance. Really get into why you're feeling crappy and try to look at it for some inspiration.

I do the same thing when I have hiccups. I think "I can't wait for the next hiccup. This is going to be AWESOME!" and then before you know it they're gone.

Maybe sadness is your brain saying "pay attention to me, something is wrong," but instinctively we try to ignore the brain by shoving drugs down our throats or hiding under our covers. Instead, you can sit down with your brain, and really figure out what's going on behind the scenes.

Posted by: Gris at April 1, 2008 01:48 PM

be prepared for a month of major depressive disorder once you run out of the sauce (adderall). also, the person who mentioned psychosis is correct--adderall is a dopamine agonist and can induce symptoms similar to those experienced by paranoid schizophrenics.

having said that, please feel free to mail me some mexican adderall. i just blew through a 2 month supply of the shit in 3 weeks and the voices keep telling me if i don't get more i might evaporate into a fine mist of sugar-flavored pixie dust. supposedly if you smoke it (the dust, not the adderall), you'll be magically transported through a wormhole to an alien planet where you watch the birth, development, death, and day-to-day (every day) life of your own personal alien. i'm not sure if it's worth it, but the adderall definitely is..

Posted by: kate at April 7, 2008 09:16 PM

I know its hard but try to remember that all life is transient and so are your emotions and your situation. We're all insignificant to the size of the universe but we're all connected by it. Suffering is natural for everyone in all walks of life. I hope this doesn't sound too contrived because I mean it genuinely, a woman like you should come out fighting because you're a libertine and there aren't many of them. Take care and step back once in a while, everyone hurts. XXXXX

Posted by: Emerald at May 1, 2008 07:02 PM

Have you read Elizabeth Wurtzel? Prozac Nation is a brilliant account of manic-depression.

Posted by: Terri at May 20, 2008 05:30 AM