REFLECTION FROM FEBRUARY 10TH, 2008**
RE: THE BLESSINGS AND CURSE OF BIPOLAR TIDINGS
WRITTEN – 2/10/2008 @ AGE 26
–Mixed Manic/Depressive State Follows with Colorful Language–
I feel mean today and I think I’m saying mean things because I’m hurting. Why am I hurting you might ask? Well I’ll tell you, hmm…I’m hurting today because I’m not satisfied with my life – it’s not nearly as glamorous as I would’ve anticipated, and really it’s not even glamorous at all.
I have no money, I have no friends, I’ve had entirely too much useless education, I’m not dating nor am I ever in a situation where I might even meet a guy, I have no friends here, I don’t go out (ever), I have no new clothes, I live at home, I have nowhere to go, nothing to do and no one to see. I view life with endless disdain and have very few experiences to have taught me otherwise. I’m tired of waiting it out; I’m tired of telling myself to see it through because things will get better. Things may get better, but it’s never enough. Nothing is ever enough.
Ah ha. This was an interesting thought, which incidentally I’ve thought before and perhaps written about before, but even so, it’s worth the reiteration. I think more often than not, that I wish I would have been able to be more social and make more friends and enjoy other people all my life, but the fundamental issue I have with that line of thought (and thank god really – otherwise I might really be f@#cking depressed), is that wishing I’d been able to be some other way is no different than wishing I’d been someone else entirely. And the problem I have with wishing I were someone else entirely is that if I have to be alive, there’s no one else I’d rather be than, of course, me. Which seems awfully inconsistent coming from a young woman who’s had mental issues for all 26 of her years, but I’ll tell you – never in my entire life have I met or even seen a person as profoundly beautiful as am I. Which really all kinds of blows my f@#cking mind; I mean that’s really something I’m gonna need to let marinate in my mind before I can even think about explaining myself in any coherent sort of manner.
I keep thinking how Stella said (before she quit talking to me in January), that it’s impossible to describe, but sometimes when I talk and am really passionate about something, that I almost talk poetry or something of the sort. People don’t really tell me things like that, and it makes me think I might actually possess at least part of the gift my grandiose feelings tell me I’ve got, since it’s coming from someone, one of the few people in my life, that have gotten at one point or another, to know me through and through.
I feel like she loathes telling me things like that, almost like she thinks I should already know it, she doesn’t want to encourage me for fear of my own arrogance or her own particular sense of self-loathing. I don’t know, it’s such a weird feeling I get from her in this regard, but I don’t know that I’ll ever forget sophomore year in college when she told me she wishes she felt passionately about life the way I do. It’s almost funny in light of the cost with which passion and creativity come. I don’t know that I’d wish this talent on anyone else, this ability to see life with such passion and ardor, because with such an ability also comes a sentence of suffering and almost constant pain from nothing but my own being.
It’s funny how truly I understand what Kurt Cobain meant when he said he wished he were so easily amused. I think most people in my life are amused with such simple things because they don’t need meaning in their life to justify the pain of existence. Some people live and breathe and do things and spend time with other people and go to places and really that’s all they need in life, to be immediately amused. But others, ohh others live not in constant comfort, but rather the opposite and need more in order to sustain.
People commit suicide because living is far more painful than facing the mystery and finality that come with death. What most people don’t understand, in regard to suicide, is that it really, in most cases, has nothing to do with circumstance at all. It has to do with consciousness, namely, an inherently painful consciousness – a concept that cannot be fully understood, without ever having first been felt. People fundamentally misunderstand the underlying premise of suicide, but judge all the same because they think they know what it’s like. They have no idea, and if they did, they’d be singing a different song altogether I’m quite sure.
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