Category Archives: alone

Self destruction …

seems to be at the top of my bucket list.

Who does that?

Who works to sabotage friendships just to keep from being hurt?

I do, apparently.

I don’t trust anyone.

Not even those I once trusted.

I have lost, or mahaps misplaced, a vital part of myself.

I hear everything yet believe nothing.

I find myself in the same place I’ve always been.

I’m manic, yes, but I’ve been manic before.

This is different.

This time, I’m predominantly, unequivocally alone.

I’ve burned the bridges that led me out of a place I’ve been to many times.

There are no more bridges to burn.

All destroyed.

From here, I am solitary.

Alone.

A reflection that has no image.

A premonition fulfilled.

A frightening, sobering thought.

Though I’ve often wished for it, I don’t truly want to be completely isolated.

I only realized that once it was too late.

Be careful what you wish for.

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Guilt …

is something I am well acquainted with.

I grew up on it.

It was my parents’ first line of defense.

Even when I was innocent, they had a way of making me feel at fault.

At fault for what?

Having sex when I wasn’t, my total incapacitation with math, the hostages in Iran?

It made no difference.

I was, for whatever the cause, to blame.

What matters is that I was too weak in my spirit and confused in my mind to argue.

So I went along.

They didn’t understand me.

Nobody understood me.

Nobody at that time really knew anything about bipolar disorder, or, as it was called then, manic-depressive disorder.

I knew I was different, but was made to believe, as everyone else did, that I was a rebellious teenager with a bad temperament.

I slammed doors.

I cried.

I drank.

I cut myself.

I was the epitome of a sufferer of Manic-Depressive disorder.

I had no control and yet was expected to exhibit control.

That is messed up in the purest sense.

I owe one doc my life. He recognized my plight and got me help.

He is one of my heroes.

Thanks, Jerry.

That was a long time ago.

In present day …

I believe Bi-Polar, one of the now-accepted terms, is a bastardization that allows people who have ups and downs now and then, to name themselves so they can be cool.

It let everyone into the nut club.

A place that was, when it wasn’t cool to be ‘bipolar”, only for those thought to be crazy, different, outcasts, criminals, nuts.

Now, however, you aren’t cool if you aren’t either bipolar or gay.

If I were gay, I would take exception to that, but I’m not gay.

I’m just crazy.

I hear rational people who exhibit no signs of affective psychosis , another PC name, proudly proclaim themselves as such.

Bipolar, that is.

Who are these people? These wanna-be’s who haven’t a clue.

They pretend to be psychotic and then turn it off as if it’s water.

I inwardly laugh just before I curse them with the single exercise of  spending a week in my head.

A day would be sufficient, but a week would make them catatonic or institutionalized.

A win, either way.

There is nothing glamorous or popular about suffering from manic-depression and if one thinks so, then they are pretending to so they can either …

fake being in high gear for the sake of getting attention …

have an excuse to be sexually promiscuous; if I may say, if it is real, the sex is unimaginable – (y’all know what I’m talking about) …

or find no fault with jumping out of the high windows on buildings because they know they can fly.

The alternative side of that msnic high is crouching in the bathroom with a razor blade, or cutting or purging or a million other coping mechanisms.

They forget that side while they are being manically cool.

Glamorous? NO.

To those who know what is real,
hang in there and fight.

To those who pretend to know what it’s like just to be manic-depressive, just shush.

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Homeless …

is something I am familiar with.

I lived, for a few weeks, under a bridge in Atlanta.

It was at first scary, but after a few nights, I was accepted by the fire in the barrel crowd.

I stood by the fire, ate food absconded from dumpsters and wondered if I would ever get out.

I doubted, being what I considered being mentally ill, that I would.

Get out, that is.

But I did.

I did get out.

I faked normalcy in order to put a roof over my head.

Faking worked for a while, but people are, in most circumstances, not stupid.

I’m thankful that my homeless, living beneath Spaghetti Junction period, only lasted a few weeks because frankly, I was freaked out.

I considered prostituting myself to buy food, but in the end, opted for going hungry.

I thought about what my strong, self-assured, fearless sister would do, and did it.

She may not know it, but her wits combined with my stubbornness, likely saved my life.

I drifted from place to place until I found a putrid, spider-infested place to get out of the rain.

I kept a vacuum on standby for many weeks to suck up spiders, hoppy-bugs and pine roaches.

I know what it is to be nobody, nowhere with nothing other than the thoughts in my head.

I am a photographer, but only I, at the time, knew that .

I see what I see and am thankful for it .

I am who I am even when it strips me bare.

I will seek what I know to be true and find solace in that truth.

I am who I am and will be so
regardless of who or what  I am perceived to be.

I know what it means to be homeless and friendless.

I am not afraid anymore.

I am, instead, fearless; like my sister.

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In a looking glass …

the reflection that looks back does so as though nothing has changed.

As though there is no darkness behind familiar eyes.

As though there is no unfamiliarity in the mundane sameness that take morning into night and back into morning.

The sameness is likely still there, but my perception has skewed it; distorted the memories, played the ultimate trick.

Finding my way was simpler before I lost it.

Mayhaps I will find it again, but if not, if it is gone, how will I ever really know?

The irony of a broken mind.

The photograph below has my copyright, so I know I was there … I just don’t know where there is.

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Another day …

has come and gone.

It was a moiling day that recurrently required my attentiveness which, as expected, was absent.

Thoughts came and went and were often re-thought because I didn’t remember thinking them the first time.

I wanted to go to my falls and stand in the rain while they sang to me and absorbed my fears, comforted my spirit.

I couldn’t remember how to get there.

I did not know the path I have taken dozens of times

This journey I am on, as none I have taken before, may actually break me past the point of my brokenness.

I’m not afraid, though, for whether I live in the Lord or die in the Lord, I am in the Lord.

My feeling of insanity doesn’t phase Him.

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And then …

there were none.

I’m standing on the front porch as the day completes itself.

The sun is setting over a field fresh with young wildflowers and high, lovely hay-grass that will grow tall and be mowed mid-summer.

It smells so good; nearly, but not quite as good as freshly turned earth in early Spring.

The soon-to-be full moon will shortly rise over budding trees freed from their winter solitude.

After this night, changes will come.

I am uncertain of the changes, but am trying to make myself ready for what will happen in my brain.

How odd this must sound.

I have things I must contend with that will very likely alter the way I see everything, including the moon.

It has been a difficult decision to make; this knowing that the way my brain perceives things and people and emotions will change.

I am only what I am, and if I cannot be what I am then I could very possibly be what I have always feared.

Nothing.

I have dear friends who are angry with me, who have not forgiven me for things I was not aware of.

While that hurts me now, next week it will likely be irrelevant.

There is a better then average chance then I will not remember that.

A curse more than a blessing for I am sorry but may not recall my remorse.

I sacrifice one madness for another.

Where, I ask, is the sanity in that?

This night, my last night without the influence of medication, I watch for the moon and hope, that when the lightning bugs come, I will be happy to see them.

I have always found joy in the lightning bugs.

For the first time I can recall, I am not an optimist.

That, in itself, frightens me.

And I dislike being afraid nearly as much as I dislike knowing I am potentially sacrificing my identity.

I suppose I am, after all, a coward.

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                My niece, unafraid

Madness …

almost always comes as a surprise.

We know we are different and unusual; difficult to tolerate even during good days.

We know we have odd tendencies that ostrasize us from the general population.

We do things that are out of character and can be hurtful, even though that is not who we are, to others.

Others we love or care about; or think we do anyway.

I say we because it is more comfortable than saying I.

I take responsibility for my madness even though it often happens without my knowledge.

Some of the world’s greatest artists and thinkers were mad, so I am in good company.

But being in good company doesn’t relinquish nor excuse the madness.

Sometimes it feeds it.

But being so, mad that is, leads to one place … a solitary life.

Who, after all, wants to be associated with madness.

Everything isn’t always as it seems, but judgement is swift.

The world will never understand who we are.

You are.

I am.

Madness.

It is a lonely place to be.

But it is, at the end of the day, a place I recognize.

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