Clockwork Circus

It takes a simple idea to take root in the mind, or at least in mine. Bipolar is the soil and the delusion quickly takes root. I heard of a place, potentially fictional but whether it’s real or not is called Clockwork Circus. There is mutual respect: follow the rules, respect them and you’re safe. You’ll return back to where you belong, safe and sound. My free will however allows me to either be obedient or defiant and curious. I need an escape, my life depends on it. The simple idea that has taken root has consumed me for years, it wakes me in the night  and cuts my days short. No one else shares it and my imminent isolation is encroaching every day right before your eyes and you turn a blind one all the same. What purpose does the circus really serve? It only brings awareness to more choices, to another dichotomy, as if bipolar wasn’t enough…But does leaving the circus fix anything? 

Everyone here is smiling, everything is technicolor and they are all polite at best. Don’t remove your mask.  Don’t answer if you hear your name called. I already wear a mask in reality and if my name is called it's usually bad news. Much like my real life, I’m itching to break the rules. If I did so more often could I find relief temporarily or otherwise? This place advertises happiness if you stick to the guidelines, so does bipolar, except no matter how much therapy and meds I will always live with bipolar symptoms no matter what. Just like this circus and just like my handicap there is undiscovered beauty but something is deeply off here. I’m fucked either way. So if you find I’ve gone, not in body but in mind, I’m at the Circus where nothing is free, my memories are fading, I keep my mask on and I’m trapped in the hall of mirrors trying to swap with another Kailyn that can do better in my reality than I ever could. Besides the point. The Clockwork Circus is an abandoned theme park of sorts that could be accessed via dream  or potentially a nightmare. It’s full of carnival rides and frozen faced carnies. Entrance times are between 2:31A and 2:49A. Perfect for me because I am in a twilight state of Valium or Klonopin and a healthy dose of Trazodone. I wake up each night at these hours in a state of debilitating fear and despair. The rides come at a cost and it’s not of monetary value but something much more unforgiving. Upon arrival I”m told not to eat the ice cream as it erases memories; of course I’m served up a double scoop. I’ve seen enough, I”ve seen it all and my memories are of little consequence to me. 

As the tide rises, it’s about time to leave, the real owners of this place are coming to collect. Yet I’m tempted to stay. But as the true owners of the circus loom and shadows are casted far across the circus, my time is up and my nineteen minutes of bliss have come to an end. I”ve always been drawn to the dark and the depraved and the forbidden. I begin to think this is the escape I’ve been praying for. It’s somewhere between death and eternal suspension. As I’ve arrived for the first time, there’s an euphoric dread. Nothing I’m not used to after a ketamine infusion and a couple of valium. Everything here is so slow and hypnotic and it’s disconcerting. Although I’m a tad apprehensive, my intrigue overcomes this sensation and I go deeper into the attraction. Everyone here knows something I don’t but I don’t ask questions as that was rule number one. I feel impending horror, a dichotomy I have navigated my entire life. How is this place so bad?

I’ll leave you with this. I don’t want to be apart of the circus show. I want to be invited, an extended stay until I return with a fresh memory slate and new awareness. Between substance abuse and a lack of rhyme and reason I shall await my invitation with bated breath. Is this my construct of heaven? Hell? Either way by way of dream or nightmare or self-induced psychosis, it shall be.

Interlude I

Hi, my name is Kailyn and you can call me just that. I’m from around here, from a home full of kids, love and emptiness. I’m just like you, except I’m not. I don’t look like you, sound like you or think like you. I’m made of my mother, a woman brimming with love, acceptance and some loneliness and a father who feels familiar but I know nothing about but I live for his accolades. Two sisters and a brother who look up to me, hopefully for all the right reasons, one can only hope. Raised on Pearl Jam, Sade, a mix of 70s rock and Maya Angelou and other things. I’m full of pride and forgiveness and loyalty is my religion. I find myself always wanting to change and you may think that’s bizarre, but I can’t help it. Each day I wake up finding I can’t commit to the person I was yesterday but rather I can’t wait for tomorrow to come so I can graduate to the next version of myself. I realize there’s a duality to me, two “Kailyns” who will each have their day in the light, only I can’t control when or how that will happen. I have a mind I am so proud of, and compliments on my beauty won’t get you very far but admire my brain and you’ll have my heart. My main problem, the real issue is that I can’t promise you I’ll feel or think the way I am right now and that tomorrow that will stick. Most likely I’ll tell you I can’t make plans too far in advance and that I “live in the moment” but that’s just a clever ex- cuse to sound deep when actually I’m too scared to rely upon my own judgment. Perhaps all you can take from this is I live completely in uncertainty and conviction at the same time begging the question who is the real Kailyn? Who is in control? I am full of contradictions and ideas that cancel each other out, and I proudly stand in my own badlands where I am unapologetic and learning everyday to accept this discomfort. Hi, my name is Kailyn. Nice to meet you.

am i living here?

When we met I was dipped in tragedy  and wrapped in remote solace. With a cherry on top of course. Now in my brief intermission of objective perspective I find I have the same reservations. Is this where I begin? Or should I start with when? I told my daddy I loved him and he told me to go to bed. I told my mother I wish I was dead, she held her head. When grandpa died, I pinched him so hard my fingers bled. I don’t remember much from my childhood and I’m not sure I want to, yet everyone else seems to think it’s important. So every week I’m sitting on a blue sofa searching for what went wrong but it’s me, I’m what’s wrong. My mind is a dialectical coin constantly flipping and where it lands isn’t up to me but I have the solution to stop it. I have the same clarity I had one fateful afternoon ten years ago, right around this time. Summer solstice you’re a gentle reminder of what I failed to do, what a poor planner I  was. Now I have insight and insurmountable suffering. Pair this with proving to be a disappointment to you all and I’m left with grit and fortitude to finish what I started a decade ago. Am I living here? Yes but the reason is unbeknownst to me. 

Everyone here is exhausted with me. I am not offended, it feels good to have a break, to have some distance. Ketamine kisses have shown me a lonesome future, but it’s okay. I see my books, my pen and Paris. I awake from my drug induced slumber and I’m in a sterile medical office and suddenly I’m reminded of my reality: I’m a  big time bummer, I’m a loser. So I make my way home and crawl into bed. Time to self medicate and drift off to oblivion but it’s no use. My old tricks don’t work the way they did before, back when I played it fast and loose. I ran the red lights and stood on the bridge at two in the morning and laughed at the stars while the fog consumed me. Is that what it meant to feel free? Now I’m scared to leave the house, my words escape me and I don’t remember yours and the wheel trembles from my tremors so I pull over and hang my head. Is this the existence you all wish for me? Am I living here? Yes, but my real estate has no value and I’m headed for the auction house. 

I take my meds and I’m cold all of the time. One, two, three, four, five, six and so on and so forth. I live my life in shortcuts and quick fixes. I just need to get through the day. I’ve learned early on that my mind is an unreliable source much like a Wikipedia page that anyone can alter as they see fit and I would believe anything you wrote about me. My memories are unreliable so my past and present can be edited as anyone sees fit. My brain will never change. Interventions can help abate symptoms and delusions but in my day to day life my condition will always have some control. What an interesting revelation. To have a fatal disorder, well not one but two which are both compounded with disillusion, delusion and chaos but also a quiet and isolating existence yet each will inevitably shave years off my life. And it feels like they already have. After revelation comes acceptance and then resolution. Am I living here? No but I couldn’t live elsewhere either.