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Reflection from May 29th, 2011 @ Age 29


Just by the hair of my chin-y chin chin.  Aww well.  For someone as smart as Dave was — he sure was an idiot for attempting to climb up onto the roof of a three (or whatever) story building after drinking heavily, causing him to fall to his death.  I mean, you can’t deny that was pretty stupid can you?  I think about it sometimes because I wonder still how to explain my tattoo, and I wonder what I’ll say after “it’s in memory of a friend” if someone asks me how he died.  Umm, well…he was climbing up the side of a building and slipped and fell.  What an idiot.  Ohh well, I guess.

I haven’t written in awhile.  Been doing a lot of thinking in the meantime though.  And had to get my computer fixed.  I’m afraid, I think, that if anyone were to ever read these journals, they would come to the conclusion that I’m quite an angry person.  And then I think, am IAm I an angry person?  And if I am, why?  I certainly haven’t had the hardest life that anyone’s ever gone though—far far from it.  But all things considered, I haven’t had the easiest life either.

There was, of course, the unbearable social anxiety starting young.  There was social isolation and substance abuse resulting in the attempt to get around it.  There was bingeing and purging after gymnastics.  There was, of course, gymnastics — which I poured my entire being into, and came up far from good enough.  There was the depression freshman year of college, and starvation/bingeing on the sidelines.  There was the endless quest to find a man that would love me, which was almost 28 years in the making.  There was the full-blown substance abuse in conjunction with the bipolar.  There was the mania.

There was the Bar, the endless inability to concentrate thereon, and insane bitch of a psychiatrist prescribing the endless array of bipolar/depression/social anxiety medications.  There was the forgetfulness, the short-term memory loss from one of those medications—forgetting mid-sentence my entire point of conversation, days on end.  There was the psychiatrist who didn’t believe me.  There was law school.  There were black outs.  There was Crosby, my love who couldn’t have possibly cared less about me.  Ohh, less we forget—there was Dave.  Ohh there was Dave.  Dave, who left me, who didn’t want me, who abandoned me and who left me without saying goodbye.  There was his death.  There was the insane social worker who poisoned my mind, didn’t believe I was bipolar when I told her I was—who turned me against my family, who taught me to whine and abuse those who cared most about me, who took credit for my manic-induced euphoria.

There was living with my parents, no money to go out, no friends, shitty job, etc. — all the while watching my friends move on, make loads of money, make friends, buy cars, buy houses, buy electronics, travel, have weddings, etc.  There was treading water for so long, just trying not to drown, while I watched everyone just swim by me, far surpass me.

But it wasn’t all so bad.  In fact, so much of it was good.  And I wonder—was the good not enough to overcome the bad?  Is that why I’m such an angry person?  And why does my anger come out in my writing but not in my behavior, at least to anyone besides Cooper and perhaps my mom.  Why am I an angry writer?  Why do I harbor such animosity?  What is hurting me so badly that I have all this negativity just brewing inside of me?  What is going on?

I want so much to be happy—all the time I want to be happy and appreciative of everything that I have.  I want to have goals and dream about having things, but I want to remember in every second that what I have now will not last forever, and hence, to take the time to savor it now while it does still exist.  I know that.  I know it, and yet I have such a hard time remembering it every second of every day.  I have a hard time remembering when I need most to remember.

I find comfort in knowing that this is a difficult task for anyone.  If it were easy to be a good, caring, loving and appreciative human being, probably almost everyone would be just that.  It would make us happy—and happy would be easy.  But that just might make it pointless in the meantime.  It is special because it is difficult to attain.  Being happy takes work.  Just like being healthy and being in shape, just like bettering yourself mentally and physically and emotionally and all the rest—just like that all is difficult, so too, is being happy.  It’s something that must be worked for, and it is very difficult to attain.  It’s so easy to become sidetracked, to forget where it is we thought we were heading—despite our desire and sometimes desperation to attain it.  We forget.  I forget.  I hate that.