Happiness Is Just Out Of Reach

With a mental illness, happiness is always out of reach. Like the donkey reaching for the carrot on the end of a stick, chasing happiness never brings it any closer. I find myself striving for success and surrounding myself with people which would, for most people, bring one closer to success.

For those with mental illness, 'going for it' and being around a lot of people, exposes your Achilles heel and actually puts a target on it. As you reach, you get knocked back down by people and situations and just life itself. And if you decide to no longer try to achieve and avoid people, you end up alone and unfulfilled. I’m a Ferrari driven to Sunday morning mass.

Call Me Weird

I recently got called ‘weird’ by a friend’s five year old daughter. She actually said “you’re weird” to which I responded “thank you, you’re weird too.” That might normally result in a punch on the face or at least a ‘what the fuck dude?’ but my friend laughed as he’s twice as odd as he thinks he is and four degrees before top-dead center. People have been taught, it’s more of an unspoken thing, that we need to keep those weird people away from the rest of us. I'm one of the round pegs in the square hole your mother warned you about and I think we need to keep those not-so-weird people away from us weirdos with their perfectly laid out lives of college and marriage and SUVs in suburban garages with smiles and hugs as the facade of a decaying foundation – believing the lies and spouting them as truths they gave birth to and never stopping to think, to really think and have a truly original thought – they believe without first questioning – they regurgitate without first pausing and filtering and making sense of what comes through and become parrots producing imperfect twins with perfect smiles – while the rest of us who are deemed the crazy ones, the rebels without a clue – the troublemakers with no regard for rules or the status quo – who drive on the wrong side with their hand at sixty-thirty and switching the station during commercials while changing lanes with the beat never going below eighty except to pass. Well I think they need to stay away from us – with their between the lines banter of actors playing a part and living a dreamy Camelot existence with four years and four doors and two-point-five kids with another woman as they hide the sniffles and hold their sides and chew gum to hide the smell – so keep them over there behind the ropes thank you – I don’t want to be on their list – the exiled blue seats have the fresh air and the view, ah the view. 

My Mind Began to Unravel

My mind began to unravel. The word UNRAVEL seemed to be the matter out of which my brain was constituted and it began spontaneously coming apart. These seven letters, big, clunky, oddly sized components of the brain, elaborately intertwined, unwound from one another, sometimes a fragment of a letter at a time.

Bumblings like these and worse pulled through me day and night, a freight train I could do nothing to stop. I couldn’t stop anything, my will blotted out by the seed of a tiny thought, a grandparent as it formed in my mind. Three, four, five times a day, my brain was hijacked. Stolen from underneath me and taken on a joy ride through the hills. By the time I caught up, it was on its side in a ditch, with the motor steaming and the keys missing.

Living In Utter Seclusion

Usually when people are injured or in need of help, others gather around to help. Bipolar is one of those things that people tend to run from. When the dust settles, I often find myself standing alone. “We have to keep those crazy people away from us” is the mentality.

When someone is moody or irritable, it’s usually dismissed as a bad day. If someone has a lot of bad days, I’ll sometimes hear “he’s probably bipolar.” People have said this to me not knowing about me and my issues. Over time, I’ve learned to manipulate the way the world sees me.

It's a Funny Thing

It’s a strange thing to want to die. It’s not like I’m going to jump off of a building today; tomorrow is another story. Lately, my highs have been getting higher and lows go so much lower. I could medicate myself into being a zombie but that would destroy the essence of who I am.

I thought about doing one of those dramatic countdowns where I’d set up a website one year in advance of the date and chart my highs and lows and daily comings and goings. And when the year is up, I’d exercise my right   of self natural selection and it would all be over. And there would be a record or it. A day in the life , or rather, a year in the life of a manic depressive nutbag.

103 Things About Me

These are 103 things about me... raw, unfiltered, and unfrittered... I've seen this on other sites and I thought it would be a cool idea... I'm going to attempt to keep it mostly positive but I also don't want to make it too sanitized. Here goes:
1. I eat sugar directly from the box
2. I love conspiracy theories... especially The JFK Assassination.... I've spend over 1500 hours studying it and I could name one of the shooters on the Grassy Knoll
3. I am fascinated with ancient cultures including the Egyptians and the Mayans
4. I am very handy with computers often setting up and trouble shooting friend's systems
5. I once got a perfect score on an I.Q. test
6. I can't cook

7. I hate coffee and beer
8. I hate religion because too many people have been killed for their God
9. I once drove through a red light on a busy Saturday at 40 mph on my bike because I had no brakes
10. I seek revenge against those who have hurt me
11. I love the rain
12. I make naked snow angels after the first snowfall
13. I recently purchased Nerf guns and have Nerf wars in my house
14. I frequently push limits to see what I can get away with
15. I own every episode of Seinfeld on VHS - it took me 2 1/2 years to tape them
16. I once spent New Years Eve with Avril Lavigne - we spent 45 minutes sitting on curb, one-on-one, talking about life

I Feel Like I'm a Ferrari In First Gear

The world moves way too slow for me. Common sense aside, I think through processes and situations three times faster than anyone around me. I can have one conversation while listening to another and writing about something totally different. Why the hell would I want to medicate that out of me?

The average person talks at 100 to 150 words a minute with occasional bursts of 250. The average brain can process up to 750 words a minute. But they can’t process two conversations at once. Somehow my brain has learned to compartmentalize each of these segments so I can absorb more than the people around me; and I understand each piece independently without getting it all jumbled together. I am not unique in this regard. Other bipolar people have told me they have this same ability.