Let’s face it… no matter how much people say they understand… that it’s really ok and they’ll be patient and understanding with you… very few people are telling the truth when it comes to dealing with those who have Bipolar Disorder. I don’t have the time it takes to explain everything there is to explain about BP… the different classifications… the difference between high functioning and other forms of functioning (if that even makes sense)… the vast array of medications that usually help but sometimes hinder a sufferer… and the idea that we BP sufferers really are suffering. It’s all relative I think. Vocabulary in and of itself has become so distorted that associations to words have become whatever anyone wants them to be and often what they are led to believe by mainstream (whatever that refers to) society and television. Oh television, how it has affected so many lives.

So I sit here at my own computer sneaking in a few words as my 6 month old son sleeps. I sit here wondering what ever possessed me to try this avenue of writing. I sit here wondering how a high functioning BP gal (I hate referring to myself as a sufferer any longer… I once was and occasionally still am but by and large… my life is pretty darn good and better than most) can say anything at all that means anything to anyone. How can I have the gall to reach out to anyone at all? So I figured out that even though I am reaching out it is not so much to try and benefit others (seems hoprrible to say that I know) but instead to benefit myself. High functioning or not… there are moments when crazy seems so close to the surface that I tremble with fear when faced with that very possibility. So instead of hushing up like a good little “crazy,” girl I’m going to speak out because it’s the only way I can.

You (whoever reads this if anyone at all does) don’t have to pay attention to a word I write and I’ll be completely straightforward and warn you that what I write sometimes can seem horrible. But I have an uncanny ability to tell the truth even when that truth is harsh and yes… not what anyone wants to admit. This isn’t a “blog,” aimed at making connections with other BP people or their relatives. It isn’t a blog at all. It’s just the chronicles of one girl who can at times, be a little crazy. Then I look at the rest of the world and realise that I’m nowhere near as crazy as some of the people out there who think they are sane… such a fine line I think. I live an existence surrounded by people but sheltered in my own mind. I could be one of those serial killers that people say they never really suspected could have ever been so cruel (of course I’m not and don’t imagine I would ever want to be but I am so lost in my own mind at times that the thoughts I do have scare the s**t out of me sometimes). I have too many secrets and only one shrink who is the epitome of useless.

I’m also sending out a little disclaimer here that the words I write are copied so quickly from my brain to the page that I often lose track of the original thought as I meander through my stream of consciousness. I’d apologise for it but it’s something I can’t really change unless I spend time editing and revising which kind of defeats the purpose of pouring one’s thoughts onto a page with the simple goal of getting the damn thoughts out of the brain so I can experience a moment of peace up there. I must admit too that what happens up there is so random and uncontrolled that I can call the thoughts crazy and make light of it because I’m allowed to… right?! It’s just like making fun of your Mother or Best Friend or any other close Loved one… you can do it to your hearts content but if anyone else utters one word of a similar nature they better have their defences up in preparation for the anger that will erupt from you. And believe me… I make fun of my Mother ALL the time because that really is the only way I can Love and accept her. Let’s be candid here… she really wasn’t what you’d call a Mother at all… ahh but that is such a long story and to be honest it’s starting to bore me now too. I’m 32 years old with a son I never expected to have… a husband I still can’t believe is by my side and a live I never thought possible. To even waste my time in a state of lividness or resentment or hurt takes up too much time and way too much energy.

I can sense that my son will be up soon. I have to be on my way now. I have to get back to pushing consuming thoughts aside so I can bring the necessary ones to the forefront. He needs to eat… what can we play now… how are his little teeth that are coming in… when the hell is he going to be older so I can get a little more enjoyment out of him… when will my God Damn lazy ass husband roll his butt out of bed so I can take a shower… ooops those last ones don’t belong there. What can I say; it a vicious cycle of filtering out the fantasy and fury in order to focus and face the facts. No wonder I live in a near complete state of silence even as I talk on about nothing. But I leave here feeling a little better… a little less lonely… a little more hopeful. I leave you with a poem I wrote during one of the toughest times in my life and a question that swirls in my head often… “What is it about craziness and loneliness that is seems negative?”

Confessions of van Gogh’s woman

Split in Two, in pieces.
I’m picking my soul up,
But it’s so bloody and damn slippery.
Scabs of brain fall at my feet;
Wandering blind.

Who are you? Me… I think?!
Crawling through, twisted womb.
Smack my ass and say hello; Hello... ello… ello…
A crying child next to a girl,
Not a woman.

Surges of fear, a void.
Orphaned then, and now alone.
Murderous rage, deafening sadness;
Kindness and joy next to the garbage…
Hating my being.

Nearing the end, wanting it.
Dripping through the crack unseen.
Soaring high, left with nothingness;
Crushing death next to beauteous light…
Split in Two, again.