Not my circus, not my monkeys…

An old proverb
has been circling the
cybersphere lately…
Not my circus, not my monkeys.

I ponder its meaning.
As I re-examine
lost souls in my life.

sometimes the drama
is much too great
much too overwhelming
to engage in.

Not my circus, not my monkeys.
As I imagine cotton candy
high wire acts, a circus of
clowns.

Sometimes you can care
for a person quite
a lot but you do not
wish to go down the dark
hole of a tunnel
within them.

You try to lend
a helping hand
to lead them out of their darkness.

but as you try to grasp
for them their hand
just disappears and vanishes
into deep depression.

and its like a tornado
has a hold of them
and they are trying to
pull you down with their ship
like someone who is
only interested
in drowning.

and then you whisper
shellshocked,
not my circus.
not my monkeys.

Advertisements

“Why Are There No Blue Dogs?”

“Why Are There No Blue Dogs?”.

This is a very well written tribute to a person that the Author had much love for. It is an honest portrayal-very sincere and beautifully written. It makes me wish that had I been born in a different time and place-I would have loved to meet his loved one. This is very powerful writing here.

An afternoon Haze

Mid afternoon, half past lunch.

I sit sweetly here,

pondering Us.

 

How we came to past?

This gift of a marriage, based on mutual trust.

All the blessings,

I somehow, in some small way,

take for granted almost everyday.

 

Your smile-which I Love.

The way your hand fits snugly into my own-

a perfect fit, just right.

 

Enough food to Eat.

A big beautiful house and

all of our lovely fur-kids.

 

All These things I take for granted,

would be impossible, if it were not

for the luck of meeting and loving You.

 

You are my favorite companion,

I get lost in memories of all the many

happy times. We have had our ups and downs,

But I always make my way, back home to You.

 

Some scary place

Acrylic mixed media pumice gel painting 1996 canvasboardSome scary place by Emily Sturgill, June 8, 2013

Saturday noon-ish

Some Scary Place-

Some scary place, inside deep beneath,

the outskirts of the insanity of my mind.

So scary– to have another episode, yet one, without

the magic bells and whistles warning us-

of the turbulence of the unsettled waves

of my un-hinged mind…a wild ride..onto hypomania and beyond.

  • A scary place, deep beneath, my sane sweet spot,
  • lurking lost in the corners
  • of a rambling, crumbling brain.
  • i cannot believe it happened again
  • i cannot believe we did not catch it-before i ran away again.
  • i am always running away from home, this is a safe place, yet i continue to flee-
  • time and time again it happens to me-but not just me-to my husband too…i leave him behind and run swiftly away, trying to catch up an runaway mind blazing through paranoid thoughts, anger, depression, mania, madness, delight and terrifying fright.

play on words

it’s a play on words,

you’ve heard the expression,

i’ll bet-ever wonder what it meant?

Me too. Is a play on words,

a satire? Or an allegory? A metaphor?

A Simile?

Some sarcastic S.O.B-lost in the sea-of his own,

word-fish? an invention of putting nonsense words together.

Strung along in a row, like the finest beads…

wearing a necklace as you go,”Hello.” and “thank-you, please.’

 

It’s a play on words-sorta-day.

silly nap-cat

sleeping in my lap,

as she-

stretches paw-wards, and towards,

my computer-lap-top-keys.

 

Its a play on words,

kinda day…

just got word that,

one of my many “in-laws”,

is worried over my well-being,

again.

 

Oh, Joy, its just a nice way,

of saying, we thinking you’ve

gone crazy again, oh crap!

Some manic-expression,

no not I.

Not now, not this time…

but thanks again for asking….

Truth be told,

I’m just mostly stoned,

taking prescription pain meds-

for my Endometriosis again…it makes

me a bit high, but not like mania.

 

Mania is a big, huge, high-one which I

cannot control nor hide nor lie.

this is more like static interference,

on the tv screen of my brain.

 

no, don’t worry,

I have not gone back,

to that land called crazy.

 

for now at least,

i am fine.

i understand your worries, concerns and fears.

but right now they are un-founded.

 

When its the real deal-

you really do not even have to ask-

its quite obvious.

 

Screaming like the tight RED RED RED, dress

on my back with the over the top make-up,

and the nonstop clatter of chatter,

from these lips.

 

While, it hurts me that your asking,

it does make me feel better,

that at least,

you do really care.

(even if you are wrong this time)

 

memoirs of a life filled crazy part-two

The last 3 days, I have been attempting to write a personal narrative, a memoir of sorts on a life filled with crazy. Tons of people from all walks of life write memoirs like this. I had no idea how hard it would be to try to write such a memoir. Most people publish these huge volumes with 200-350 pages. The first day, I wrote roughly twenty pages. Today i worked on trying to expand, refine, lengthen it-my manuscript.

When I reached, a point where I could no longer stand myself-I only had 60 pages. Ugh only 60 pages…kinda more of a short story then a life-story. I tried to get my anti-reading husband to look it over for me-he gave up 11 pages into it. He is a comic-book reader by nature. And also, he reads much slower than I do. He rarely reads for pleasure, unless it is a book from a hit cable TV series or a book where they made an awesome movie. He barely, reads his college textbooks and he is really smart so he can get away with that crap-I never could.

It hurt my feelings he could not get into it. I took my bedtime bipolar meds at 8pm and attempted to just go to bed. But he kept pestering me, was I mad at him? Why did I want to go to bed? Is everything ok? He got overly cuddly. Then I finally turned on him and began tickling him. He is rarely ticklish but tonight I got his sweet spot. He was ticklish everywhere. So I got him to leave me alone and I made him laugh-so that’s gotta count for something.

I’m not sure how many more re-visions, I can go through. I want to paint a picture of my life, how it was like, just so others could reap benefits from reading about some of it. But I want the picture to be very blurry and vague. I do not want to share “everything.” and I am sure that’s part of my problem.

Some wounds are so raw that they never heal. Yet, on the other hand I have been through Hell and back again, in one piece. There is useful knowledge and wisdom somewhere if I could find it.