Reflection from February 25th, 2008 @ Age 26
RE: FIGHTING BACK AGAINST STIGMATIC HATRED & SOCIOLOGICAL DISCRIMINATION
Alright, this is the last time I’m writing until I’ve slept through the goddamn night, gone to work and come home. I’m getting really irritated that I can’t sleep, and even more irritated that I keep coming over to the goddamn couch and opening up my computer and opening my Word file just to type some more goddamn crazy thoughts.
I just wanted to mention, for fear I did not already mention above, that I feel completely embarrassed and humiliated with the things that I think—the thoughts I’ve portrayed through my writing. I remember my Dr. D’Angelo told me, after I’d told him how devastating it was to feel the way I do—he said, “it’s not your fault, you know that don’t you?” And I said “yes, yes I know,” but I didn’t say the following: just because this mess isn’t my fault doesn’t mean that I’m the only one who alone, must deal with the consequences stemming from it.
When it comes down to it, the illness, no—having the illness is not my fault; the problem, though, is that all the consequences stemming from this bipolar disorder are my problems alone. In this, I am alone. And I am embarrassed, and I feel humiliated, I feel crazy—and more than anything else, I just feel alone. I feel that I’m best off alone because it would be selfish and cruel to subject anyone else to the likes of me. And I don’t know, after reading all these crazy thoughts I have, these crazy actions I’ve taken, I don’t know how anyone else could feel any different.
So, that line of thinking may have something to do with the reason I keep coming back to wanting to kill myself. I’m pretty sure I’d be willing to bet Gordon’s never thought of this kind of circumstance when he considers the possible reasons why people end up killing themselves. The problem, people fail to see—starts way before any of the resulting consequences. The consequences are our fault—but the origin creating the method by which the consequences are stemming has involuntarily been cast upon us. Now if that’s not goddamn back luck, I don’t know what is.
My god today was the longest f@#king workday I think I’ve ever goddamn had. All f@#king day I had thoughts—I was stopping here and stopping there to write, it’s compulsive I tell you, I feel like if I don’t stop to write I will lose my potentially brilliant thought forever. Some way to live. Here’s what I came up with anyways…
Ohh this was lovely…I was thinking about how I would like to become the spokeswoman for the American Bipolar Association. Because of course there must be some sort of association…everything in America has its own association.
Anyways, I was just thinking about how I’d like to spur more research in the area by bringing the issue of bipolar illness out for discussion—by stirring a bit of controversy or whatnot, and in doing so, hopefully help people who suffer from this illness in some actual, palpable way. I want to break down the stereotype that we’re completely dysfunctional people and I want to increase understanding and research so we can better help individuals who suffer from this illness.
But then I was thinking, maybe they already have a spokesperson though—and maybe what I’m doing isn’t really all that relevant at all. What if I’m being delusional here? That’s the problem…I can’t tell the difference most of the time between my dreams that are okay to dream, and my dreams that are delusional. I mean, couldn’t it all merely boil to a matter of probable statistics—a delusion being something that will probably not come true, whereas a dream might be something that also probably won’t come true, but at least there’s some palpable chance that it could? I don’t know! I don’t know the parameters separating what is okay to dream and what type of dreams make me delusional.
One good thing, though, is that if I am way off base, and this is really a stupid idea—then at least nobody will publish this collection of writings and I’ll be saved that much humiliation. Not like it matters much, though, since the humiliation is pretty much an everyday staple to my existence.