…really does go round and round.
I didn’t even realize that I’ve been blogging for more than a year now. When I started, I needed an outlet (like we all do), to be listened to and heard, and ever since I got my own domain and space February this year, my blog’s growth was slow and steady. I didn’t really care about stats and hits back then. Just that I wanted, needed, to write.
What I didn’t come out about then, which I came out on for a short period in the test blog, something that only Matt Hamilton knew (he would be the first of many people I have met on AIM as a result of blogging), was that I suffer from bipolar disorder.
Oh, there are so many resources out there, so much documentation, that it’s almost “hip,” “cool,” and “trendy” to be bipolar.
It isn’t hip, cool, and trendy to be galvanized into major action not knowing when to stop.
It isn’t hip, cool and trendy to be paralized by depression, not wanting to get out of bed, taking Tylenol PMs in the middle of the day just to go to bed.
It isn’t hip, cool, and trendy to be paralized by fear of taking steps both forward and back.
It isn’t hip, cool, and trendy to pace around the house thinking of something to do because you just have to do something.
It isn’t hip, cool, and trendy to to lie in bed thinking of something to do because of the guilt that comes with doing nothing.
I have foregone medication for two reasons. Affordability, and something… else. Something… that only those who have taken it once know. I felt like a different person. It was scary. I didn’t know why I didn’t feel the same kind of reaction to what would have been a trigger, and it scared me.
I have foregone therapy because the quacks and shrinks don’t know shit about me. They never will.
I embraced this disorder and made it my own, and in looking for a vent, I started blogging.
Somewhere between my birthday and late September, I felt discordant with my blog. I could not connect. True, I did great thinking, vigorous linking, and though I resented none of those, the words rang empty in my head.
The outlet that I ran to for catharsis was getting narrower and narrower.
I felt the walls closing in: on my writing, on the blog, on my life. When I walked through Baltimore Sunday afternoon, it was a liberating experience. Unfortunately it wasn’t a lasting one.
(At this point any sane person would say, “well, that’s life. You get away, go back home, and deal with it.” How could I explain to anyone, judgment notwithstanding, that I cannot?
In a way all the alcoholics, and drug addicts, and those who speak of addiction as being powerless over something, these people who I did not understand at all, who I judged to have been skipping responsibility by calling it an illness, became kindred.)
Coming home from Baltimore, my 8 by 9 room felt like a coffin. I needed to lash out, to do something, to destroy, to create. To rebuild.
Reworking the template was not enough. By now, dear reader, you know that. Or at least you should understand that. I can only put so much concealer on a zit before its festering infection became noticeable beyond any means.
When my words started feeling like white noise everything fell silent. Once again, I was suffering in silence, and I promised myself to never go through that again.
So, I screamed. I screamed in a way that few would expect.
Now, for the very same reasons, for the very same hurts, aches, and pains that I started blogging with, I started over, and strangely, I feel free. Now the circle closes and starts rewriting itself.
Am I “back?” Getting back is the uphill battle. There is no “new” me. There is only me.