Goddarn it, if mania is a mental illness why did they make it such fuckin’ fun?
Seriously, you’ normies’, or neurotypicals if you prefer can have no idea what it’s like to be an interdimensional traveller. To trip out on the power of your own mind. Pity the drug-addicted. I don’t even need shit to get high! I just freakin’ am.
But right now I’m actually not. I’m pretty stable, have been for months. It was a very welcome relief. But I like to think and reflect on these altered states after the fact and with my feet somewhat planted on Planet Earth.
And I wonder, if I could have my life again (perish the thought), would I have chosen this, or would I have chosen a ‘normal’ life with all the requisite accomplishments such as a career, a mortgage, two point five kids and a husband?
Let’s be honest. That stuff was never on the cards for me from an early age. I was a feminist at 14 for God’s sake! I developed a deep aversion from and fear of marriage from watching my parents. I also was not especially maternal. I played schools with my dolls and issued some severe beatings when they got their sums wrong! Psychopath in the making? Well you’d think so wouldn’t you! The point is I never wanted to change my doll’s diaper or dress her in cute clothes and wheel her around in a freakin’ pram. Fuck all that shit.
And at age 16 or so my PE teacher told me with my attitude I’d never be a meaningful member of society. My response was ‘I don’t WANT to be a meaningful; member of this society’! She sighed and looked skyward. But deep down she knew exactly what I meant. She just wasn’t allowed to say so. So yeah, there was some precocity there you might say. But in other ways I was terribly vulnerable and naive. I deeply pity that young girl. She didn’t really know what the fuck she was in for.
She was at home with ideas and a natural academic. Artistic and creative too. But she had terrible trouble trying to align her dreams with reality. Was any kind of compromise possible between the two?
The best I can come up with are the words I write here and my interactions with others. Only by means of words can I really bring about any kind of melding between the world of dreams and the unconscious, and this external world of phenomena and sense impression. So yes, I actually need this blog and I need to write. As much as I need to drink water. More so. Drinking water is purely a bodily imperative. Sharing my innermost being involves everything I am or ever will be.
But yeah. Would I be prepared to give up all of these amazing experiences I’ve had in mania, the crazy adventures, the heightened senses, the magic and the mystery of it all? For what, exactly? To be another mediocre wage slave? A playground mum? A disappointed wife?
Can anyone, anywhere, explain to me why I should aspire to that? To conformity? To a regime imposed on me by the more ‘powerful’ people? What’s power anyway?
I’m sounding like my son, or is he sounding like me? He analyses everything out of existence. He fastens on one word or phrase and dissects it until it disappears. He’s merciless with that poor word. He makes it disappear. He’s like a cat playing with a mouse until it dies. He has the killer instinct.
I don’t go that far but yep, I am hugely analytical nonetheless. I’m also quite precise. I’m scrupulously honest and truthful or at least try to be. (We’re all duplicitous apes folks). To the point that, I can’t change a story or make up extra bits to make it more entertaining. Never have. Never will. I’m not the pub raconteur. Actually you rarely find me in a pub, but if you do I’ll be quietly drinking a fruit juice and tonic and watching the people.
My pal Baz wrote here that his (voluminous) writings will come the nearest to explaining to anyone who reads them who he was, his character and what he stood for. And yes, whether the blog becomes a lengthy suicide note or not, the same is true for me. Nowhere else do I get to share ALL of this stuff. It’s always piecemeal, ALWAYS. Even when I have an hour alone with my therapist I will only touch on a FRACTION of my depths. Because I will always tailor it to the person I’m talking to. I’m never the same with two people. Never.
Which begs the question, is ANYONE? The ability to connect with another requires that you go out to them to some degree. If you keep everything tightly locked up inside you’ll be unable to connect. And don’t we all take our cue from the other person to some degree?
What you see here is my little share of the great art of alchemy. I weave the endless crap and bullshit of this existence into some kind of cohesive and pleasing whole. Straw into gold, as in the Rumpelstiltskin story.That’s what all artists do. There are worse ways to spend your life. A lot worse things to aspire to. Baz and I don’t give a fuck if we have readers or not and we would run for the hills from ‘likes’. Yes, I read my stats and it gives me a buzz if I know that two people in Poland read or viewed my blog today. But I don’t seek that kind of affirmation, approval or approbation. I am not made that way. I KNOW if something I’ve written is good. I reread it to seek my own approval, and frankly I’m more often pleased and satisfied than not.
A friend of mine, pretty much a career psychiatric patient like me once told me he liked obscurity. He meant it, and I totally concur, but him saying that makes it sound like a conscious choice on his part. He could have chosen fame and fortune, but didn’t. I too would loathe fame. I don’t NEED fortune, but would really hate to be public property, my private life on display, an object of gossip, envy and so on. I was not made for that or it for me. Let me die as obscurely as I have lived. It’s FAR FAR better that way.