ON BEING MENTALLY “ILL” — Sociologically Induced Suffering

Reflection from February 20th, 2008 @ Age 26


I always think it’s funny that when I tell people that I write, and when they see me writing and writing and writing away, they can’t even imagine what the hell I have to say that would take up so much goddamn room.  I don’t think they judge me, I just think they don’t have a clue what all goes through my head such that I could have such massive amounts of writing to do.  I can’t quite believe it myself a lot of the time.  I don’t know what compels me to sit down and write almost every day.  To sit down and write about my thoughts and my feelings and whatnot.  Perhaps it’s because I have so many thoughts and feelings, so many complicated and complex and intertwining and completely confusing thoughts and feelings that it’s the only way I can even make it possible to gain some sort of grasp over it all.  Maybe because I think when I am dead and gone I will have something concrete, something more intimate to share with others than perhaps all the intimacy I’ve ever actually shared with other humans beings combined.  I write my intimate thoughts and feelings, I record my intimacy, perhaps because I want someone to share it with, I want someone to want to know what I’m thinking, what crazy thoughts and terribly difficult feelings I have to deal with, that I have so much trouble dealing with.

I think it’s interesting trying to record what it’s like to be a human being who suffers from bipolar because I have the illness and it’s tremendously difficult even for me to understand what the hell is going on, what the hell it means to suffer from this illness.  There is so much yet unknown about mental illness and drugs to treat mental illness.  I think for some people, myself included, it doesn’t matter how much effort you are willing to put in or how many different methods you are willing to try or how many drugs you are willing to take – what remains inevitably constant through all the change endured throughout life is a dulling, relentless unbearable pain.  A suffering has been placed upon me from which I cannot escape.  I could escape it temporarily through drugs, most desirably through smoking pot, but in all honesty that only made it worse because it made it all the more difficult to return to the relentless aching that’s been thrust upon me.  I don’t know why I was born to suffer.  I only know that I was born and I was meant to suffer.  I don’t believe I’ll ever escape the suffering, and it makes me angry that people tell me that I can’t smoke pot to escape this insufferable pain, and yet they do not know how to help me—not my parents, not my friends, not professional doctors, not therapists…nobody knows how to help me.  They take away the one method by which I’m able, at least for some period of time, to escape the inescapable suffering, and then they leave me to suffer alone in the dark.  I am not their problem.  Even if I were, they would not know what to do with me.  They do not know how to help me.

It’s just unfortunate that I was born from the womb different from most others, I’ve suffered inevitably from my consistently proscribed deviation from the norm, I’ve been cut off from activities that constitute the norm, and I’ve been left beaten down and broken apart and bleeding on the sidewalk, a mere spectacle for the amusement of others.  No I don’t really know what the hell I mean by that so don’t take it all too seriously.  It’s so difficult to record feeling in word.  I’m just so very tired, I just can’t see how the utility of sticking around for the minuscule moments of joy when 98% of my life is comprised of involuntary suffering and pain.  If you open a business and you are bringing in less money than you are expending out, then you close it down don’t you?  If you find yourself in a relationship in which the negative impact upon you far outweighs any benefit derived therefrom, you end the relationship don’t you?  If you walk into the fire and it burns you, you retreat, don’t you?  I just wonder how much longer I can lead an honorable life in the hope for a better future, when the future never seems to come and it’s been all but branded into my skin that there are in fact, no guarantees in life.  I do wonder.

Anyways, I hope tomorrow is better than today.

One thought on “ON BEING MENTALLY “ILL” — Sociologically Induced Suffering


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