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Reflection from February 25th, 2008 @ Age 26


I still can’t sleep.  My mind is racing and my heart is racing and I’m reading through these old journal entries and they make me want to f@#king kill myself.  I am crazy…crazy as can be!  I am f@#king crazy and I really feel bad for all the people that have gotten mixed up with the likes of me, because I’m f@#king craazzzy!  I guess maybe it’s a good thing that I hide myself from others—and do you know why?  It’s because I’m crazy!

I’m noticing definite patterns of concrete mania and depression in my writing.  During the mania my head’s all over the goddamn place—I’m up at all hours writing, I’m often incoherent.  I can’t recall a depressed part at the moment, except obviously right now, because I have been in an extended manic period for quite some time where I am at typing up these journals.  I think about publishing all this mess—I mean I think it would be great to present an honest to god account of what it means to be bipolar, what it means to suffer from bipolar.  But I think about publishing this craziness and having people look at me like I’m f@#king crazy, and never being able to get employed again because everyone will f@#king know how crazy I really am—and where will I go from there?

I have this glamorous idea that I will get published—and don’t get me wrong, I think I have a great idea here in the sense that I could really shed some light and understanding on what it is to be bipolar—but I have this glamorous idea that once I get published people will love me and I will be asked to be on Oprah, and fashion magazines will want to write articles on me and my book and want me to do photo shoots and be on their covers because I’m so goddamn beautiful — and I keep thinking, this is what it must feel like to be delusional.  I can’t believe that I am fucking delusional.  But I am!  I suffer from a psychotic disorder and I am crazy and I am delusional and if anyone knew I was really like this—I don’t know how they can say they’d still love me because I don’t see how in the world that could be so.

I loathe me when I look back at my life, look back on my thoughts and my delusions and my depression and my mania.  It’s pretty much a miracle that I graduated from college and law school and got a job, shitty paying as it may be.  It’s difficult to understand how I can present myself as such a normal human being most of the time—how I could perform decently in school and graduate with a doctorate degree for god’s sake!  It’s difficult to understand how I could do all this while I’m fucking psychotic and delusional and hiding it from the goddamn world.  I mean, I honestly don’t see how anyone could love me if they knew the thoughts that run through my delusional mind.

I envision that designers will think that I’m so beautiful and represent truth and honesty and goodness, and that I’ve been such a big help in shedding light on this terrible illness that so many people suffer from in silence—and I think I will become a public figure and well loved, and designers will send me free clothes because they will be honored if the likes of me were seen wearing them.  The likes of my crazy ass self.  Talk about delusions.  And yet some part of me—some teeny tiny shameful part of me wants more than anything to believe these things could come true.  I feel like to believe so is to be living outside of reality.  I believe that I have much difficulty living because my mindset shifts in and out of reality.

I think, I am so f@#king crazy but at least I am honest and am willing to portray the incredibly complex mind of a person who suffers from this illness and I think, maybe actors and actresses will respect me in a sense—because don’t I represent the kind of complex human disaster and conflicting beauty that serious actors and actresses want so much to portray?  I want to be loved I guess, but I suppose I want to be loved on a large scale.  I want to be loved on a grand scale so that my suffering will have been justified.

But I fear that in my search for this scheme of grandeur, I am at once wasting my life away in delusion and committing myself to a life of misery.  But where is the choice in the matter?  As far as I can tell I have no choice in the matter.  So why is it that I keep betraying myself by secretly suspecting that I do?  I live in complete confusion; complete fucking chaos fills every corner of my mind.  I don’t know how I can live like this, and more important, I don’t think that I can go on much longer living like this.  I think all these thoughts and feel so ashamed for having thought them, and then I loathe myself for being involuntarily what it is that I am.  If that makes any sense whatsoever.  My mind apparently works in mysteriously incoherent ways.