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.