Why Bother

I sincerely do not know why I do. Nobody reads this and even if they did, nobody really gives a fuck. This is not my world. I am "this" close to checking out. There is nothing for me here and I do not care anymore. Apathy is the worst kind of depression. I do not give a single fuck anymore. What, then, is the point? There is none. No point, no reason, no hope that any of this will ever change-- and I do not want to live this way anymore. I either want more out of life or to leave it altogether. Some would call that cowardly or selfish, but neither do I agree with said opinion, nor care if I am wrong. It is MY life, and it has played out, apparently. No relief, no change, and no hope for either to come my way. Let. Me. Out. Please!!

music

How is it that at times the sound of a car passing in the distance amidst the rain

strikes a chord - so to speak - that can bring a tear to one's eye
Without any explanation as to why. It is, after all, just a car passing by
But the mind has this uncanny ability to create a story in an instant around
a sight, a taste, touch, smell, or sound

so that it takes on a life of it's own...

Sickness Unseen

Haven't felt this desperate in years.
I want to smash something.
I haven't wanted to break shit up for years--
a decade, at least.
Where is this coming from??
Such a fast and intense downward spiral.
I am breaking under the strain.
I am falling the fuck apart.
And nobody gets it, nobody really knows
how tortured my soul is right now
because I "present well"-- lucky me.
This disease is fucking killing me

I'm dying a silent death, to everyone but me.
Only I can hear the screams of anguish in my head.
But I can assure you, they are every bit as blood curdling
as any dying woman's cries...falling on deaf ears,
which I suppose is just as well
since there's no saving me.
My silent plea for relief that will never come, is choking me
and the frustration is so overwhelming I want to cry out.
I am not prone to violence or hurting myself-- but tonight...
I want to put my fist through the mirror just to watch it shatter, and to bleed.
At least, then, there would be an apparent cause for the pain,
a "justification" for hurting as badly as I am. right. now.

Like oozing blood where there is no injury,
my pain makes no sense to you
and so you shake your head in disbelief.
I get it. You don't get it.
If I was reeling in pain from cancer,
you would at least try to sympathize.
But instead you write it off--
it's not as as bad as I'm making it out to be
and, hell, I'm doing it to myself!
(AS IF anyone would WANT to feel this way!! for chrissake)
I'm being overly dramatic, unreasonable, emo
labels, meant to shame me for my "defect"--
labels that insinuate that I am exaggerating or just plain contriving a story
because you can't see the "evidence" of any other cause for it,

(and why the fuck would anyone pretend to have something wrong with them?? I realize there are some people who seem to find that kind of attention appealing-- but that sure as fuck ain't me!! Anyone who truly knows me, knows I don't want anyone feeling fucking sorry for me or thinking I need help from anyone!!)
No, I don't know what causes it. But I know it's fucking real.
Because I am hurting-- badly. This madness is truly insufferable.
Fuck your labels and your judgment of me

and fuck. this. fucking. pain.
Please, just make it go away.
Please.

Houseplants Beware

Some years ago I saw the movie "28 Days" about a woman struggling with addiction. At the time, I was particularly struck by the rehab counselor's advice to those who had completed the program and were going back to their "normal" lives-- he suggested that before any of them get wrapped up in a relationship with another person, they purchase a houseplant and keep it alive for one year.

I have struggled with using alcohol and drugs to "self-medicate" and I have also been "mis-medicated" by doctors. But, the main character's story in the movie is not mine .....

My illness is chronic-- there is no cure. My drug ab/use has very often been an attempt to relieve the anguish of the symptoms. But there is no 28-day rehab for Bipolar II and the only thing that will stop this illness is death, which I believe in my case will most likely come - as is very often the case Bipolar II sufferers - as a direct result of the illness. Many who are not educated would call me a doomsayer for such a prediction. I say I know the fucking statistics.

For those who consider such a forecast of one's future to be melodramatic or pessimistic: educate yourself, please! Read Virginia Woolf's suicide note. Know that she was a brilliantly talented individual, one of the fortunate few who realized her calling in life and became incredibly prolific and successful in her life's passion and work. She was loved deeply by those whom she sought to spare having to deal with her madness-- that horribly debilitating symptom of an illness that, treatment notwithstanding, cannot be stopped. She had every reason to live. She also had reason to end her life, knowing that as long as she lived, the disease would continue to manifest in the form of unbearable pain, which is the part of this illness that that only Bipolar sufferers fully understand. (Nearly everyone else is a skeptic, believing that on some level our symptoms are either self-inflicted, exaggerated, or somehow imagined-- as if!!) If you, dear reader, have been under any such impression up until this point, know that you have believed a ridiculous falsehood, which is at the root of the stigma and shame of having a mental illness. Do you honestly believe that the upwards of 6 million people in this country who have been diagnosed as being Bipolar would actually choose to suffer mental anguish that is just as agonizing as any pain that results from physical disease or injury? Or that - for some bizarre unknown reason - we are just making this shit up?? What reason could I possibly have for pretending to have a defect of which I am completely ashamed and which I would gladly rid myself of at whatever cost there might be to do so? Truly, these are ridiculous claims-- period! End. Of. Story.

As for Virginia, at some point when she felt the familiar symptoms coming on, she could not bear the thought of putting herself or her loved ones through the pain of enduring yet another bout of madness. And yesterday, yet another wonderfully talented individual, Robin Williams, also apparently came to the conclusion that the pain was simply insurmountable and death was the only way to end the pain. Truly, although Bipolar symptoms can be managed to some extent, the illness itself is terminal.

This being the case, I have often reflected back on my life with regret for having formed relationships with anyone beyond those I was born into. Why would anyone with such a defect attach themselves to another person?--knowing how this illness wreaks havoc on a person with some regularity and consequently chips away steadily at our relationships and hurts deeply the people trying to maintain them.

However, nobody told me not to form relationships with other people until I could keep a houseplant alive for a year-- nobody ever made any such suggestion. Not once did any of my mental health providers suggest that in the same way my illness was detrimental to me, so it was bound to be a force for destruction in my close relationships and a cause for despair in the lives of anyone who dared try to love me.

I'd like to think that had I been given such a warning, I could have perhaps been selfless enough to avoid forming attachments like the plague. Alas, no such foresight was granted to me. That being the case, I went about my business like a "normal" human being-- getting married, having children, and so on.

For this - to those with whom I chose to bind my life - I am sorry. I apologize for not coming to the realization sooner that my causing you pain is inevitable, simply by being a part of your life or bringing you into my world.

It's a sad fact: I never could keep a damn houseplant alive for more than a few months .....

Half of Who I Am is All You Ever Wanted

Can you feel me?

I need you more today than I did yesterday

I know you feel it

I sense the distance it puts between us

In the same way that my strength draws you near

My frailty pushes you away

Tell me, then, who am I to turn to when I am in need?

Such a wretched enigma!

You love and respect the part of me that does not need your approval

While the part of me that craves your love and acceptance stands hated

At a time when a caustic remark would fly right off my shoulders

I am deemed worthy of your esteem

But when I am vulnerable

I become the object of your disdain

When I am in need of tenderness and compassion

You lie in wait for the woman who needs nothing and no one

To reappear

You admire her resilience

You take delight in her vitality

You love her when she is self-assured

Then leave her when she needs you most

Half of the person I am is all you ever wanted

-Ironically enough-

It is the half of me that can stand alone

This is the paradox

Of a maniacal disposition

And the reason I do not know if I will ever feel

Truly, wholly loved

By anyone

looking back and moving forward

as to my last post (from over a year ago)-- correction: it had actually been 2 years since i had started the blog and still only 17 posts. i have since come to the conclusion that looking for meaning in the world is a useless endeavor. my "purpose" is not determined by any outside source. it simply comes from within. in order to give our lives meaning, we must rediscover our own passions and then put forth effort to make them materialize. pretty simple, really. face-palm simple, in fact. but - hey - i may be slow, but at least i can be taught. i have a hunch that there are many who will "live" for many years, and die never having realized this truth...

no more

i started this blog just about a year ago. i have posted 17 times. this is typical of my life--loose ends everywhere. i have no drive, no focus, and no goals. i am at a loss to find meaning in anything anymore. what is the point, then, of carrying on, when i have no idea just what the hell it is i am supposed to be--or who i even am.