I keep thinking I’m getting better. Better at life, better making choices, better
with my behavior. Then it seems to cave
in on itself in a bout of narcissistic self-absorption. I guess some days I just don’t get it. I’ve been diagnosed with bipolar and maybe
all I can hope for is that there will be moments that I do get it but with
mountain sized bookends of only trying to figure it out. Maybe the miracle is that I am trying to
figure it out, at least I’m making a fight out of it. I wonder if I’m fighting or flirting with a depression
now. Typically they’re a downer,
tiredness, ennui, isolation, self slutdom, the worst. But today I feel very tired and tested every
day. I slept for most of the day Saturday
and forced myself out of bed Sunday to ride my bike. I had to get out and breathe. If being tired is the only symptom this time
then maybe I can tolerate it but it won’t subside or bide the tide at this level.
This is one of the reasons I’ve decided to write this
blog. The days leading up to 60. Maybe this is part of that. 60 is just a number but sometimes it feels
like jumping off of a cliff. I don’t
have that natural, spiritual gift that life is a wonder, a joy every day that I
get to participate in. I don’t wake up
in the morning with little rituals of reading, praying and thanking a higher
power for all the charity I’ve been blessed with. No I just forget to do that, every single
day. I forget. I just get up and get
ready to go to work. I go into work with
the same mind that I’ve been fighting with, trying to figure out shit, trying
to fit it into some normal fucking mode that will give me ease and pleasure
without effort. Why can’t I have that
mind? What twisted bitch of fate had to
hand me the one that slipped off the belt and was kicked around on the ground
for 40 minutes before finally getting picked up, wiped off on someone’s denims
and put back on the belt? “Oh just put
that on the Shirley belt, it’ll do.”
My therapist explained the “rejected child” theory last
night and, yes, that’s my story. The
rejected child. When I was born my older
brother developed a deadly case of chronic asthma and of course the attention
was on his survival. I get it. By the time he started getting a little
better another brother was born and of course he had to have some maternal
attention too. I get that too. I was born with a twitter that bordered on
seismic spassdom so I was just too much too handle. Welcome to the world of Chris. They just let me rock myself to sleep, rock
my bunk bed across the room every night and just push it back into place the next
day, every chair a rocking chair. Do you
get it? I was never still. I don’t think they knew how to hold me so I
stayed forever moving, one lap to the next, to the couch, the chair, the steps,
in front of the TV, behind the TV, in the kitchen, on my bed, in my closet,
etc. I don’t know if it was emotional or
just faulty wiring I just could never stay still. Not rejected but injected with speed. This wasn’t just my normal physical activity
but I had a brain to match. I always
wanted to know what was going on, what was next, when was the boring subject
over, are you talking to me and what did you say, what TV show is on next? Moving, moving, moving. Go, go, go.
Whatever I did as a kid broadsided me as an adult. I know I’m not the only one but I still have
the mind of a boy when it comes to paying attention. Yeah I have a steady job and pay my bills,
have a house, a car etc. But it all came
as a surprise mostly. I just happened to
be in the right place at the right time most of the time. My job now I got out of that spastic
persistence. I put out resumes for 2
years before someone hired me with no experience. I just wouldn’t give up on that one. I learned everything on the job. When I bought my first home I got laid off
two weeks after making my first mortgage check.
Oh yeah, that was a crap moment.
But I spassed up and found a job within 2 weeks and managed to keep that
house. I have a lot, a lot of little
tales like this. Relationships came and
went the same way, between trips of spassdom.
I would fall into them and feel like the luckiest guy in the world. But they would make me think and think
hard. I would think I would have to have
a 4 year college degree, or that I had to have some notion of saving the planet
my own special way. I would think that I
would always have to be the good guy and say sure, sure, sure that sounds
great. Eventually I would collapse under
the weight of that noneledge (my own word) and find myself single again.
I just didn’t think that I was making a difference in the
world and for some reason I had to do that.
I had to be special in some way that would make me the most appealing
person you’d ever known. Even in therapy
I wanted to be the best patient that you had on the couch. I don’t even know what that means to be the
best patient! Does it mean the sickest
or the healthiest or the most challenging?
I don’t want to be like my co-workers.
I want to like them, sure, why not, they’re all good people, but I don’t
want to be like them at work. I want to
shine but also to be kept in a room where only I can see how shiny I am. And somehow for you to know that. In some secret special way you would know
that and treat me with super-secret respect, winking at me when we pass in the
hallway because of that knowledge. And I
wonder why I fall into depressions.
I was at Bob’s wake on Sunday and learned a lot about him
that I didn’t know. He had made a
difference in many people’s lives and I felt small that I could not cry because
of an old tired resentment. I may be
known for holding on to resentments that could qualify, right? Of course, a part of me knew there wouldn’t
be that many people at my wake and I was just feeding my depression a 5 course
meal at that point. I’m part of
something but I still don’t know what it is.
When I discover that my thinking is defective I go back to ground zero
in a lot of areas. I don’t have a safe place in my head where I see myself as
others see me. Damn it, my bipolar is
supposed to be my super power but I feel so powerless right now. If I don’t feel good about myself 24 hours a
day, then something is wrong and I point those 3 fingers at myself all the
time. I want to be off the hook, I want
to relax, I want to make mistakes with glee, and I want to be defective with
joy. I want to like somebody and not
have to have so, so many rules to abide by.
I want to feel like the dad I was when Ry was 10 to him now at 28. I want my aches and pains of facing 60 to
only be physical. I want that part of my
brain that knows I’m special to be open to me regardless of what’s going on
outside of me. I’m not only a rejected
child but I’m a sensitive child too and the world and it’s wiring that I find
myself in is too harsh for my nature.
1.
I’m grateful that I can try to write what I feel
is going on currently.
2.
I’m grateful that I will only turn 60 once.
3.
I’m grateful that I have a new bike and that I’m
riding it every day.
Comments
Post a Comment