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Reflection from November 21st, 2007 @ Age 26


I’m finding out lately that I’m an immensely angry person.  I’m angry because I have all these thoughts flowing in my head—most of which I cannot even express because I have not yet the words with which to give them expression.  I’m angry at my prior therapist for taking advantage of our relationship by not fully informing me of the consequences of my decision to divulge personal information to her regarding substance use, and of my participation in the IOP program for dual diagnosis mental illness/substance abuse.  I’m angry because I don’t know whether I should/need to disclose my ”substance abuse” history on my medical insurance applications and I haven’t anyone I can ask for legitimate, unbiased, truthful advice on the matter.  I’m angry because I had to grow up without the emotional support that I needed to be “healthy” and “happy” and I’m angry that’s so severely fucked me up in my head. 

I’m angry that I’ve been born with mental illness and I’m angry because mental “illness” is not yet recognized as a physical illness, but rather still carries the stigmatization that I’m a fucking loon.  I’m angry because I feel like a fucking loon, and I’m angry that the reason I feel like a fucking loon is because I am so fucking aware of the suffering in the world—because I don’t have the money or the wherewithal or the indifference to either not see it, to choose not to see it, or to just not care either way.  I’m angry that I care and that caring means that I get hurt.  I’m angry that in order to maintain a soft, good heart, I have to not only allow others to hurt my heart—but also forgive them for doing so.  I’m angry that I somehow was taught to hang in there because things will get better—sitting here having found that alas, things still have yet to “get better”. 

I’m angry that I thought at the very least, having gone through the pain of law school would at least financially pay off in the end—sitting here having found out it most definitely has not.  I’m angry that I have to kill myself or perpetually hope that things will get better when I have not any evidence to support said hope.  I’m furious that some people have it easier than others—even though I suspect more in my heart that everyone in the end has it better sometimes than others, and worse sometimes than others.  I’m so fucking angry and the worst part is that I feel I have no one to turn to, no one who understands me.  People keep saying just trudge on, carry on and things will get better, but they don’t see my pain and they certainly don’t feel it.  But what the hell do I know? 

I’m angry because I keep wanting to attribute things to others when I have no right, but I want to do so anyways because I live in a world where it’s done all the time.  I’m angry that I’m 26 years old and living at home and earning $32,000 a year and still have yet to take the fucking bar exam.  I’m angry because I thought somehow I’d be so much further ahead by now, and I’m angry that somehow I know in my heart that I am so much further ahead right now—and that the real problem is that I just cannot yet see that.  I’m angry because I’ve tried so hard and put so much time and effort in, and still, still yet I cannot quite seem to get my life the way that I want it. 

I’m angry that I can’t enjoy a glass of wine with my family for the holidays or any other damn day for that matter.  I’m angry that some social worker overreached her bounds in diagnosing me as depressed, anxious and an addict when she couldn’t even see right in front of her nose that I was fucking bipolar.  I told her that I thought I was bipolar and she flat out denied that I was.  This was a lady that I trusted—that I thought I could trust, and it kills me to find out that while I learned many a thing from her, that she didn’t really have all that great a handle on what she was diagnosing.  I think it’s for reasons like this that I am terrified of the world and terrified of being a professional in this world.  I’m looked at as a coward or “stupid” if I don’t act like I know everything—and yet the more I learn, the more I realize I don’t know.  And I don’t want to act like I know something when I don’t, but I find myself in a situation where I need to.  I want to be able to admit that I don’t know and go figure it out and then return to the issue—not just trudge along like I think I fucking know what I’m talking about all the time, only to find out later I’ve built myself a house out of cards. 

Boy I love writing, I feel so much better now!  I have to remember to write when I’m feeling shitty.  I have to remember to write when I’m feeling shitty because there are many ways to deal with feelings, and infinite ways to deal destructively with feelings, but for me—writing works, and it is constructive.  I want to live a constructive and honest life because that adds substance to a life that is otherwise without meaning.  I truly believe at this moment that my life is without meaning unless I venture to give it meaning.  I know that my life is relatively, relatively meaningless, like ants marching, we march around thinking we are so damn important—and really in the end I think much of it, most of it I’d dare say, is plain and simple without meaning.  But I’ve found that my life is not worth living without my giving it meaning, and for whatever reason, writing what I feel is a method of affecting said growth.  It’s so funny how I write with words like said and forthwith or whatever, this legal profession…what has it done to me?

Paul introduced me as his associate today and said I recently finished law school and will shortly be taking the bar exam and it made me proud.  Those moments are few and far in between at the moment—for what have I to show for all my education at the moment but loans?  Not a whole lot.  But I will hope that those moments will increase because without hope I’m back to wanting to kill myself, and what fun is thinking about suicide if you can’t just get it done and over with already, my friend?  Tell me what good.