Bipolar: self acceptance, intensity, and suicidal ideation.
Hey people. It’s been a while. I don’t particularly care.
That’s my life! You aren’t, this blog isn’t, the only facet of life that sees me come and go as I please. My friends, my family, they all know the drill. Harassing me, or me harassing myself, for being a flake isn’t going to change anything. This is just who I am, and it’s part of a larger pattern that I can’t and don’t particularly want to break away from.
“Time moves differently for me,” is the first thing that comes out when I feel the need to justify myself.
Sounds like metaphysical bullshit, and it probably is, but I embrace it. Because I can!! My feelings aren’t cemented into the reciprocal cyclone of expectations that so many other people seem to hate. I hate it too, the expectations of shallow gestures and stock balm for superficial social wounds. Fuck you! If I love you, you know it, in bursts, when it matters. I know when it matters. I commit when I can, and when I can’t, I don’t, because I’m not down with letting anyone I love down.
I know I would, too. Let people I love down.
When I was 15 years old, I tried to kill myself. Wowzah! What a segue!
Yeah, I’m going that deep right now. Fuck you, deal with it.
I have spent the past 10 years trying to understand it, and slowly I’ve come to move forward and through it and incorporate the complex emotions that led me to do such a thing into my current personality. To protect myself, and to respect the seriousness of what it was that I was trying to express, through acting on my intense desire to be dead rather than alive.
“Cry for help” is a phrase that swirls around outside of me, but doesn’t connect with the actuality of the situation.
It was more like, “Act of repentance”, for letting everyone around me down over and over and over again. People who had helped me, as I “cried for help” through other means. Messy room. Didn’t do my homework. Couldn’t follow a routine. Impulsive. Escapist. Whatever.
The particulars aren’t as important as the overall truth that I have had to come to terms with: Who I am on the outside is so far from who I am on the inside, that I would rather die than to live this inadequacy for my whole life.
I wallowed for years, but in 2012 I decided to go full force towards becoming myself entirely.
It’s like a gender identity crisis, without anything to do with genitalia.
I am who I am, and I shouldn’t, and won’t, trim my wild hedges into the warped bastardized interpretation of humanity that has been spoon fed to me by mass media and unquestioned acceptance of what they teach in elementary / high schools. I don’t want to breathe in the stale bubble air, I want to hold my breath until I pass out.
So that’s what I did.
But I’m alive, and have resolved to be strong, and to endure the negative side of being alive as much as any positives. Because my mother and father love me, and I am their only child, and I love them. That’s it, basically. I exist for other people, and I don’t feel comfortable interfacing with people in the happy, easy, warm waters near the surface of existence. Yes, this is pompous and “self-aggrandized” language, and yes, that is a “symptom” of bipolar disorder. Does that necessarily mean that I need a pharmaceutical cure? NO!
It means, put me to work! Put my skills to good use! I have helped many people who have come into my life get through very agonizing and painful situations, helping people not to die, helping people to understand and grow through empathy and exposing my perspective and soul. So what if I can’t always get up in the morning, so what if I forget to call on whatever holiday? Who cares if I haven’t called or texted or written to you in a year, or two? Who cares if the gift I made you is “worth less” than the gift you gave me last year for christmas. Who cares if you think that I’m “saying something” with a gift of a book? I don’t care. I would rather not participate than navigate that social cobweb of political bullshit that people who don’t appreciate the value of life and love put all their energy into. Fuck it! That’s not what life is about! Other shit matters more! We aren’t getting exploded by bombs, we don’t fear for our life, we have enough food to eat and if we don’t, all we have to do is walk safely through our paved streets to the nearest fucking supermarket stocked full every day of fresh goods to select whatever we desire to fill our bellies. Oh. How can anything matter more than that?
Time is prescribed, and I prefer not to swallow the bitter pill. If you and I meet 5 times, twice within a week, the next time a month later, and all other times ten years from now, I am not in any way offended. That’s our narrative, between two individuals. That’s the trajectory of our destiny. It’s determined by our choices, but I don’t need a particular archetypal perfection to exist between friends or family members. When I knew, at 15, so deeply, that I couldn’t possibly change myself into the kind of person who does adhere consistently and reliably to that idealistic, perfect archetype that nobody can actually achieve and everyone seems to actually resent, I decided to apologize to all the people I was letting down by KILLING MYSELF!
SORRY! I was so destroyed and horrified by the idea that I can’t be perfect and that some parts of me are always going to hurt other’s feelings, that I decided that the only way to show how truly sorry I am in advance is to KILL MYSELF!
That’s serious shit right there.
That’s how serious I am, all the time, about life and being.
I have to accept that there are always going to be things about me that clash with the expectations of the people I love. I voraciously attempt to build up the areas of myself that I feel can balance out the negative traits that I can’t change, but if those parts of me that I actually like about myself are unable to connect with one person or another, then I suppose all they see are my flaws. Oh well, their loss, I suppose.
I accept the flaws in others, and that means I have some very hard-to-deal-with friends that I wouldn’t trade for the world. I get myself into complex social situations, and I am proud to say that I have learned to navigate those kinds of waters with grace and tact. I’m not afraid or hesitant to dive right in to negativity, and help deconstruct it. Poke holes in the logic of your depression. Break down barriers to your own happiness. I’ve done it. I can do it again. That’s more important than projectile-vomiting opinions and memes about what you read on the internet about the latest episodes of whatever TV show you mindlessly devoted hours of your life to. What am I supposed to do, pretend I don’t feel that way?
I am distant. I have a bad memory. I limp through life with crippling anxiety, but that has made me as brave as I am unreliable. I’m selfish and self absorbed and self centred and obtuse. Too intense. But I care so deeply about everyone, every stranger and every friend, about everyone’s deepest wounds. Both sides in the wars. All the women, all the men, all the plants and the animals. All the atoms in the oceans and skies and land and space. Everything. Everyone. Yes, it hurts to be this way. What am I supposed to do, pretend I don’t feel this way?
Can’t I be a separate unit of love that has it’s own gravity and explanations and patterns, like the moon? Like a comet? Why can’t I? I’ve got enough confidence, now, I think, to accept my flaws and be myself with great gusto. If you need help, if you need empathy, if you need perspective, if you need a safe place for a few days, or a few hours, or a safe heart to share a dark secret, I am here. Even if it’s been years since the last we spoke. Even if we weren’t ever really friends, before, and you just like the vibe you get from my facebook or blog posts.
If you can’t accept or don’t like me, I don’t blame you. I won’t burden you with my presence.
But I won’t kill myself, either.