I got an email from the City library yesterday informing me that the due date on a stack of library books was approaching.  Instead of being disappointed that I was once again running out of time to read the books I had checked out, I hastily stacked them up, removed the bookmarks from the as-yet-unfinished titles, and banished them to the living room to be taken back to the library posthaste.  Why?  Most of them were titles on bipolar disorder or related topics, and quite frankly, I’ve grown sick to fucking death of reading about it.

Yes yes, high risk of suicide especially considering the family history.  Yes yes, have to stay on the meds.  Yes yes, high likelihood of having to alter those meds over the course of my life, perhaps more than once.  Yes yes, vulnerable to a whole host of other mental maladies, not to mention relationships that will never function the way everyone else’s do.  Yes yes, blah de blah de blah you can cram your bipolar illness straight up your ass, thanks very much.

Something tells me this is terribly normal for a newly diagnosed bipolar patient.  Or for anyone newly diagnosed with an illness that’s going to affect their daily lives, forever.  My mind is filled with a supercarrier of questions that may, in fact, not have any answer, which I hate.  I am the sort of person that will dig and dig and dig until I FIND an answer to whatever question I’m asking, and the longer it takes me to find an answer, the nuttier the question makes me. I know this is a personal problem, because indeed, some questions do not have answers.

some things can never be changed
some reasons will never come clear
it’s somehow so badly arranged
if we’re so much the same like I always hear

Rush, “The Larger Bowl“, from Snakes and Arrows

Yep, I know I just outed myself as a supergeek.  Got a problem with that?  This summer I see Rush for the 9th time, and I’m taking my kid with me.  Anyway.

This stuff makes me want to flip a massive middle finger in the face of the concept of acceptance and to tell the Buddha to take his acceptance and his compassion and his understanding and go fuck himself.

Are you serious? After the bullshit that I’ve had to put up with over my life, the drunk parents, the calls to the police, the broken glass, the splashed blood that *I* had to clean up, the oppression, the sexual abuse, the absolute pathology that tainted just about every.single.interaction that my family ever had with itself or anyone else, the having to be an adult from the time I was about five, the intrusion into parts of my life that DO.NOT.BELONG to anyone but ourselves, being the only person in my house regardless of age to be intelligent, and this is what I have to put up with?  Really?  Truly and really and seriously?  Where’s God, or Buddha, or Yahweh, or whoever?  Nope, bring Him here, front and center, because He gets my best right punch straight to the nose, and it’s going to HURT.

Great, it’s not enough that I have a plain old medical problem to deal with, I get to have a full-on existential and religious crisis to go with it.  And the first person who says “Life isn’t fair,” to me gets the same punch to the nose God gets.  No fucking shit, Sherlock, got any other gems of wisdom to share? (not really, I don’t hit people, of course)

I’ll get over it, I’m sure, though I couldn’t possibly say when.  It’s all a bitter pill to swallow (about as bitter as those trazodone tablets, I sure wish they’d coat those fuckers), and you know what?  I think I’m entitled to a bit of bitterness.  I know I shouldn’t stay here on my bitter pedestal for too long, because that won’t be good for me, but I think it ought to be just fine if I dwell here, however briefly.  People say that feeling sorry for yourself is a bad thing, but I disagree.  I think feeling bad for yourself is the emotional equivalent of crawling into a warm bed with a huge bowl of ice cream and chocolate sauce and watching a completely vapid movie that makes you feel better.  Sure, if you do that every night for a month you’re going to get fat and miss out on a lot of life, but not if you do it a few times.  I know part of me is waiting, incorrectly, for some kind of stamp of approval, or official acknowledgement from wherever that You Madame, have had a Raw Deal!  And I’ll have to deal with that part of me quite slowly, because it’s right: it got a raw deal.  But there is no Department of Raw Deals to which one can apply for one’s Raw Deal Certification, and even if there was, what would it get me?  Discounts at Starbucks and Amy’s Ice Cream in perpetuity?  Free massages and chiropractic?  My own lane on the freeway?  No, of course it wouldn’t.

What I DO have, though, is a pretty large circle of friends who keep telling me how amazing I am despite the hindrances life has thrown at me.  My job is to keep hearing those voices, not tax them to say such things too often, because no one likes a suckup, move forward, and not get on my case when I have a “Raw Deal” day, as long as I’m not having them too often.

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