And it doesn't really matter anymore, honestly.
So here's the truth.
At best, I am going to bounce back and forth between extremes my whole life. I have such a severe, extreme case of bipolar that my ability to function and hold down anything resembling a life, a relationship, or anything we here in America call a successful, normal, healthy existence is practically impossible.
When they find a cure for bipolar disorder, then I'll be free. Suffice to say I'm not holding my breath. And until that point, what I do or say or post here or anywhere else is really of no consequence. Those who would oppose me or be incredibly critical of the things I've said need to understand that I really don't have anything to lose anymore.
Most people who blog with me---you guys have what would be called "a life". You have marriages, children, careers, friends, and a lot going for you. Or if you don't have it now, you will have it later. I don't have that going for me, at all. I probably never will, until they come up with more effective medications, or dare I even hope it, a cure. As it stands right now, I'm totally screwed.
If you scour through my past or confront people who have known me, you'll realize quite quickly that I have only been able to maintain sanity for brief glimmers of time. I don't really care to have any secrets anymore, friends, or any real desire to hold anything back. Keeping things back is the domain of people with something to lose. I will linger on food stamps and SSI for the rest of my life and though it was deeply painful to choke down what was left of my pride, I've done it.
But had I lived forty years ago, I'd be either committed to an asylum like my Great-Grandmother Smith, or be lobotomized away like one of the Kennedy siblings. So I suppose I have to benefit at least from the vague hope promised by 21st century medicine.
What does it matter, really? I could be in the bowels of depression next week, wishing I was dead. Or I could be on the uptick towards mania. There ain't no in between. I'm either going up or going down and happy mediums are for those without this affliction. And there's always the chance things will get worse and I'll stop commenting someday and disappear off the face of the earth. Rest assured, if I die by my own hand, there won't be any editorializing. It won't be advertised or telegraphed. I'll just be dead.
One of my friends blew his brains out in a park. Took me by surprise for sure. The needle has a way of doing that. I wish I could get the image out of my head, but it'll be there for the rest of my life. And no, I won't describe it for you.
Interweb drama aside, I don't really think you understand me.
So here's my last secret. I'm a defective human being.
And if you want the satisfaction of throwing that back in my face, it's yours.