I want to write gems. Not because they are pretty but they have value. When you look at an emerald that has been unearthed, it just looks like a rock. I don’t need to write fancy cut prose. I just want to make some valuable rocks.
Fall is my first Spring
Spilling words like seeds
Into hardened soil
Then fighting their way through
Like tender shoots
And starving for sun
My words aren’t written
They are birthed
Bloody and painful
Screaming their way into the world
My words are my children
They will some day go out on their own
I ask of you
Treat them well
As if they were yours
I’m in a pickle. I want to talk openly with my friends about my life but there are too many things I’m supposed to be ashamed of that prevent me. For example, I joked about my ADD earlier and I guess that’s prevalent enough these days and sufficiently mainstreamed to the point that it’s socially acceptable. That’s all fine and good but mention bipolar and people raise an eyebrow. Why am I supposed to be ashamed of that? Would I be ashamed if I had cancer or diabetes? Is that an unfair comparison? In my limited experience I think the chance of it resulting in death is just as real. The amount of work I have and continue to put in to staying alive is just as hard. Yet, I am doomed to suffer in silence. My close friends know; the ones I know won’t judge. But that circle is in the minority. So for now I blog in half-shadows with no lack of awareness of the irony that I can tell eleventy-billion strangers my deepest darkest with less shame than I can tell my causal friends, my coworkers, my extended family, or my love interests.
All that said, bipolar isn’t a death sentence and it isn’t actually all bad. I live a highly functional life. As a matter of fact, I have a job that 99% of the people I know have already admitted they could never handle. Maybe facing the abyss every once in awhile removes some barriers to life. Once you’ve looked down the barrel of an open 19th story window, other stuff just isn’t so scary. I get on a plane every-freaking-week (side topic; newly acquired claustrophobia, will address later) and fly off to god knows where to the office of Client X, Inc. I interview people, gather requirements, actively listen (the hardest part), and play psychiatrist, consultant, designer, process analyst, friend, devil’s advocate, scapegoat, or whatever they need me to be for them at the time. It’s mentally and physically exhausting, but I’m good at it. In fact, I’m good at a lot of stuff and I rarely give myself credit for that. And the public speaking. Was my worst fear for years…until I got perspective (see 19th story window). Now I do it almost weekly. Do I love it? Not really. Am I good at it? Well, yeah, I guess I am.
So, my first piece of unsolicited advice for anyone reading this who has *any* sort of mental illness: Try to look at it as an opportunity of sorts. You have a unique experience with this world. Yeah, you got dealt a sucky hand and I will not minimize the gravity of that, but the reality is what it is. We don’t have a choice but to make the most of it. Wallowing gets you nowhere. Get a good Dr., a great therapist, some excellent drugs, and then go for it. There’s nothing you can’t accomplish. Your brain is a unique gift. It’s receptors fire in different ways, finding unusual pathways to innovative solutions. Use that, harness that, and forge ahead in the glory of your own uniqueness.
I’ve often been told that my life is so random that I should write a book. So many reasons not to:
a. It would take me months to decide on a premise
b. I have no experience or education as a writer
c. I would piss off a lot of people unintentionally
d. I have no ability to follow a train of thought to it’s natural conclusion
e. I don’t find my life all that interesting
f. I don’t have the attention span
g. see f.
So in lieu of proper writing I have resorted to the literary journal of the ADD generation…Facebook. I post the occasional quip and snark that amuses me and hopefully the occasional friend. However, lately my friends list has expanded to an uncomfortable extent; a broad and varied enough circle around which I am reluctant to let it rip so to speak. Plus I know at least my patience for long form Facebook posts is pretty thin, so why subject people to mine? I will continue to quip there, and occasionally cross-post, but to a few of you, I will allow a glimpse into my more drawn out thoughts and experiences. Prepare to be occasionally amused, sometimes sad, an in many cases bored, but pretty consistently you’ll be glad you don’t live in my brain. I know I’d like some time off from it myself. But I’m stuck here, so I might as well share the insanity. I won’t focus on any particular topic (see f) and occasionally forget to post altogether. But for now, I think this will be good for me and moderately entertaining for you.