Dear Loyal Readers (all whopping 44 of you),
It’s another beautiful day in sunny, humid Pace, FL. The sun is out. The sky is partly cloudy or is partly sunny? (I’ll never understand the difference between those two. Weathermen, weatherwomen, weatherperson, weatherthem [whatever the PC version is] have the best job ever. They get paid LOTS of money to be wrong 90% of the time.) Birds are chirping. I’d like to shoot every one of their chirping asses. They mock me from their secret branches singing their happy songs. Shut up, birds. Go find Snow White and leave me the hell alone in my misery.
I paid another year’s subscription to this blog. Not intentionally though. They have my credit card so the payment just rolled right over. Might as well get my money’s worth. I started this blog when I was tired of keeping my bipolar a secret. I wanted to educate and entertain people about mental illness in an effort to stop the stigma and secret keeping. In retrospect, I thought I was healthy then but perhaps was a bit hypomanic. I never go back and reread anything I write after it’s published. Perhaps, just maybe, my efforts have actually helped someone. I doubt it. Who is going to listen to a just plain crazy woman who sees herself either as the savior of the mental ill and educator of the masses or as a useless bag of skin, bones, and fat with no worth or purpose. Well, 44 of you listen. Thank you.
I started this thing and swore it would make me famous. I’d publish hundreds of books. Be interviewed by all the famous media journalists and talk show hosts. Prince William and Prince Harry would add me to their royal causes and crusades educating people about mental illness and advocating for people with mental illness. Famous, I tell you. My name would spark profound discussions, and my logo would be blazed across all kinds of merchandise. I was brave. I was bold. I was courageous. I was just plain stupid.
My secrets are out there. I can never undo them or take them back. They permanently float in digital space for the universe to read. Luckily, my family still talks to me and my friends are still my friends. In fact, one friend rescued me last week. She schlepped me from office to office and let me sleep in a huddled mass on her office floors so I wouldn’t be alone. It was some of the most comfortable carpet I’ve had the pleasure of balling up into the fetal position on. I mean it should be, she is a world-famous surgeon. In fact, I should speak to her about upgrading to a bit plushier fabric so next time I can feel like I’m floating on the floor. Do they have memory foam carpet? Or sleep number carpet? How ungrateful of me. I should just purchase a cot for my pathetic ass.
I make light of a heavy situation. I vowed I would never commit myself to a mental hospital again. You can check yourself in, but you can’t check yourself out. It’s like a horror movie hotel. Motel 666–“we’ll leave the door locked on you.” Actually, the last seven days have been dark enough at times that I’ve considered going to the hospital. They give mental wards welcoming names. I’ve spent time at “Crossroads.” Gotta love the irony. Where I live now it’s called “The Pavilion.” Where everyday is a picnic.
Seriously, there is no shame in going to the hospital. It’s a safe place where you can rest and be with like-minded individuals, who literally know your pain, struggles, and fears because they have the same. If I had cancer and needed chemo, I would be comforted by other chemo patients and there would be no shame in that. However, to be comforted by other mentally ill patients doesn’t get the same respect or even understanding. So we keep our issues quiet. We hide in our darkness. We stay in the shadows. We wear our masks and pretend all is well in Unicorn Land where the rose-colored glasses, cotton candy, and merry-go-round rides are free, while all the while we want to puke and get off the ride.
I hate that Christmas movie, “It’s a Wonderful Life.” My husband forced me to watch it a few years ago. In the movie, this guy wants to kill himself but an angel comes and shows him what life would be like without him; hence, the guy doesn’t jump off the bridge, the angel earns his wings, and the annoying little girl gets the most famous line, “Every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings.” Oops. Spoiler alert. Sorry not sorry.
What would life be without me? Where’s my angel? Where’s my story? I freaking hallucinate people, but none of them have earned their wings. Is life like a job? If you quit, no big deal. There’s a person right behind you to take your place. Out of sight. Out of mind. Maybe that’s why people love Facebook and Instagram and all those other bullshit sites. They can create the life they want or show off the life they have or complain about the life they don’t have. They can create a voice in a world where no one hears anything unless it’s a picture or meme. I spend too much time stalking people from a far for no apparent reason. I post pictures of my kid or my pets and then wait eagerly to see who likes me. What a waste of time and energy looking for validation in a medium where everyone else is looking for validation. But I’m going to post this on Facebook anyway because for me-it’s my chance for a voice.
I’m not posting this to get more followers. I’m not posting this for sympathy. I’m not posting this to hear from anyone. I’m posting this for me. I’m posting this because it will be permanently in the universe even when I’m not. This is my mark in the world. This is how I’ll make a difference. This is how my voice gets heard. I’m too weak and exhausted to shout from rooftops.
If you’re worried, don’t be. I know there are people here and now in this universe who need me even though I’m in this dark place. I will not leave them. I’ve been depressed enough to know it’s temporary. Even in my misery, there is purpose. I know my purpose and place for today. I am depressed and feel dead inside, but I’m very much alive and fighting. So order me another cotton candy and make the ride go faster. I’m a Unicorn, bitches, and this is my land.