A Friendly Tea
Amidst life’s treasures
Is the cup of tea shared
In our quiet pleasure
Our feelings, they paired.
As socks in a tumble
We’re joined at the neck
Our stomachs soon rumble
T’ the kitchen we trek.

Writing is an outlet I rely upon from time to time. I wish it were less sporadic but there it is.


Climb everything, collect bruises like old men collect dust. Break a leg and learn to play hopscotch with crutches. Chase the dog and spook the cat. Break a mirror and swallow a marble. Learn 1+1, see spot run, and how well hair mingles with bubble gum. Get sick in all the best ways in all the best places, vomit in the elevator on all the pretty shoes, snot and spit on mom's boss all over his wrinkled dome.

Fail to make the bathroom in time too many times to count but enough to know the inestimable value of clothes clean and dry in that wordless animal way. Cross the street when no one is watching, lick the frozen pole on a dare and lose your taste buds. Steal a candy bar or three. Discover what makes your parents tick and press all their buttons. Ditch school to see the Yankee's play with dad on his birthday. Ask all the questions you can think to ask. Then ask all the ones you shouldn't but will anyway.

Be afraid of the dark and kiss your cousin on the knee. Act when you shouldn't and pause when you should flee. Do the opposite of what you are told. Go to the movies and sit in the very front row until your head hurts and your stomach rolls. Scream and cry and gnash your teeth when you can't have your way and wish the worst on your parents. Get to know the word "unfair."Dance like a monkey in the sun and swallow/choke on the water in the pool. Catch snowflakes on your tongue and visit the carnival riding all the rides your height allows.

Go on field trips and get lost. Send secret notes in class, do you like me y/n? Paint badly. Scrape your knees. Talk too much. Stay up late at night with a flashlight and a copy of Steven King's "IT"your dad thought he hid in his closet. Harass your siblings as if they were hostile aliens. Make friends;lose friends.

Fall asleep in your mother's lap and try to act older than your age. Break the neighbor's fence on your bike with that bamboo pole trying to joust like the real knights of old. Burn your finger on the stove, and eat too much of everything. Do all these things as if they are everything Life has to offer. When you sit here like me remember, and smile fondly for all those things which could only but once be.

Often my life seems more akin to some horrific dark ages torture device or a complex trap of which I never seem to be free. These past months have been a twisted dream. I was on the dangerous side of depressed mechanically taking the meds and wondering what excuse would sway the psych to increase the anti-depressant or switch it even. Because whatever it was supposed to be doing was not happening. I ended up stuck in limbo hoping the darkness would pass ever slipping deeper into the detached certainty that the only answer lay in ending this joke of a life. At some point I cracked. I didn't have the strength to do the deed and I couldn't stand the emptiness of limbo.

That's when the pot and alcohol came into the picture. That lasted about a month before I realized I'd escaped the depression. I let everything slip. I didn't read my mail or keep track of money my room was in shambles. I was around while it all happened but I wasn't really there. I had escaped into manic days of heightened energy and the enthusiastic "in the now" existence I had in the past come to desperately fear. On some level I was just glad not to be depressed on another I knew my problems weren't over they had just shifted. Ultimately the only thing I really knew was that the dark days would return. I was no less sick living in the illusion of freedom I had on the manic side of this bipolar coin. That's when I looked up the local shooting range and signed up for a shot gun basics class. I figured if not now there would come a day when I would need an exit. I had the energy to get things done that I lacked when depressed. I took the class and signed up for the safety course required for a pistol permit. It would also allow me to shoot at the range without supervision. It happened that I was drunk the night before and missed the nine am class. Perhaps its strange that the only thought I had in my head was well if not now later. I didn't feel like I missed an opportunity as much as postponed the inevitable.

As it turns out ( I discovered while catching up on the mail) I failed to reapply for my state health insurance and have had my services discontinued until I reapply. So I'm staring at my meds counting pills wondering if I can drink my way past the days I'll go without. I wonder if it's a sign that I can't care enough to be afraid. A part of me is laughing at the idea of what I can only imagine will be an excruciating rollercoaster ride of barely controlled ups and downs. I'm so fucked I don't even feel it. Welcome to my world.      

I want things I'm afraid of having. I'm afraid to chase anything at all. I can understand seeking small objectives with small investment paid for smaller gains. Anything of greater commitment is a farce. I am not whole. I do not trust myself for I am as reliable as the wind. I am consumed by the heaving pitch of momentary passions. The revelry of heated enthusiasm is here and gone like lightning. The brilliant instants of euphoria illuminate the shadowed whole. I am undone. I never thought I'd play the victim. I never thought I'd hide behind the cloak of my illness rationalizing my hardship as a fight lost before I began. Yet I've been hiding all along from the fact that I'm a puppet and bipolar holds the strings. My psych shakes her head as I beg for the answers meds offer. No magic act exists to banish this beast. I'm lost and the only light I see comes as the final price is paid. I'm too weak to stomach more pain than I already bear. I'm caught hoping for an exit I lack the strength to supply. I laugh at myself unable to speak of my wishes. People respect suicide, who respects those caught on the edge? 

Sometimes a friendly face is the last thing I want to see. Strangers allow one the personal distance required to quietly nurse the intrinsic sorrow of being oneself. To see a friend when on the verge of tears is to lose all illusion of control and be forced to regurgitate the hidden pain sob after sob. Beneath the shadowed cloak of stranger's words tepid and polite I forget who I am and how I feel. But now I cannot forget so cry with me if you will faceless friend.       

The Dream
It seems like everything I was told growing up was utter nonsense. For instance, any advice to disregard the opinions of others in favor of finding some group of peers who accept you for yourself should come with an all-caps disclaimer pointing out that you just might never find them. Maybe settling for less is worth considering. Isolation(self imposed or otherwise) is hell. I don't care how authentic or original you are its not worth the cost unless somehow you are entirely content with the solitude. I am not. I mean the thought of truly being yourself and being accepted among peers you respect and care for is idyllic and perhaps as such should be disregarded as so much other Hollywood fabricated delusion.

No social relationship is perfect. They all in some way or other revolve around interested parties hoping to satisfy and be satisfied via social interaction, preferably at no great personal cost. Don't get me wrong true friendship exists. I'd like to think that everyone has at least one true friend someone they just naturally clicked with and were closer than family. Nevertheless, circumstances rarely allow us the availability of such friends few and far between as they may be. I wish I had been raised with a greater awareness of the penalties associated with social alienation. Ces't la vie I suppose. I guess learning the hard way has it's merits.

Today was a beautiful day but I'm not sure I could appreciate it. I was feeling out of sorts and it took me awhile to find my feet. But it was a beautiful day. I've just discovered the show "united states of tara" and have been entirely mesmerized by it's depiction of multiple personality disorder. Its hard to watch how the family members deal with the main characters illness when I look at my own life. I certainly wouldn't be here without my family.

A First of It's Kind
I've never done something like a livejournal before. Honestly, the idea of a public journal always seemed a bit oxymoronic. But when keeping a real journal I'd inevitably have to face the fact that I wished someone else were there reading along as I wrote it with something to say. I guess I'll start with a little about me. Approximately four years ago I was diagnosed with bipolar 1 disorder and generalized anxiety. I was nineteen. Bipolar is all encompassing and can be incredibly isolating. I'm looking for others who can personally relate to the experiences which otherwise baffle or serve to discomfort those without firsthand accounts of their own.   



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