I’ve been searching for sanity for sometime. Some days, I feel like I’m pretty darn close. Other days, it’s blatantly obvious I’m miles away. The majority of the time is just learning to accept that I have a mental health condition. In fact, that’s the hardest part.
The messes always get cleaned up, the debt gets reduced, the apologies get said. But the acceptance…that’s a whole different ballpark. Who wants to accept that they’re crazy? Who wants to accept that for the rest of their life they need to take medicine every single day? Who wants to accept that the belief that you’re invincible is…well, just a belief? Who wants to accept that when you don’t get what the point of living is that neither does most of society though they don’t wallow, mope, and contemplate taking that last gulp of life…tonight.
There’s this voice inside me that thinks, maybe they got it wrong. Maybe I’ve just been tagged bipolar and stuck in this track that isn’t even for me. But then, a simple reflection on the past twenty years of my life provides some reassurance, (reassurance? More like eesh, did I really do that?), that the docs got it right.
I’ve battled addiction since I can remember. As soon as I first started smoking pot, I knew this was the drug for me. I plucked a seed out of the crap 13 year olds smoke from the Midwest and stuck it in a nice planter box on my windowsill. A few days later, my dad asked what I was growing. “It’s for science class”. He went away. Next day he tells me we live in the city and you can’t just grow that in the window. “You’ve got a day to get rid of it”. My hopes of growing my own supply died in the city park. I haven’t smoked in a couple weeks. I guess it exacerbated my conditions. Never realized it, but that’s what the experiments are all about.
I don’t drink much anymore either. I found that every two months or so, I’d get a wild bug up my ass. I’d want to get down right wasted, go dancing, socialize with the whole world, drag a stranger home and fuck his brains out. And most of the time when I got this way, being only about 110 pounds, I’d black out after so many shots and well, you tell me what happened cause I sure as hell don’t remember.
Lately I’ve been feeling energized. Like there is new life inside of me. I feel this buzzing, this force…but like I have a seatbelt on. The meds. The meds have become my seatbelt. I can’t go too high, can’t go too low. The damn meds.
You can read that there are famous people out there, diagnosed or assumed to be bipolar. Vincent Van Gogh, Virginia Woolf, Mozart; geniuses of their chosen fields. They didn’t take meds and they created masterpieces. Sure, they may of all killed themselves but they’re immortal through their work. It’s the drive to make masterpieces that makes me want to flush the white pills, the blue pills…all the pills down the drain. It’s that urge to renew that direct connection with the Universe so that all I touch is gold, all I think is gold, all I do is gold. But alas, I need to remember that I take my meds to avoid another suicide attempt. For the seatbelt effect. I take my meds for the damn seatbelt effect.