DO NOT CALL YOURSELF NAMES... JERK

Bipolar disorder, along with any other illness, has a dumpster filled with jokes about the condition. It's good to laugh at ourselves sometimes. That is why we, along with the gloominess, share funny stories & pictures on our web sites and Facebook pages. BUT more people need to realize where the line between comical and offensive is.

These photos were found on a bipolar support page. I have no doubt there was no intent to offend, but I find them insulting and ignorant. "I don't need drugs, I'm bipolar." Right. Because all of us dig riding invisible bikes in our underpants. Yes. And like Bugs Bunny says, we're all Crazy, wacko, insane, lunatics. I don't know any bipolar person who thinks it's funny to be called any of those things.

I don't know. It confuses me when a bipolar support group starts posting jokes that point out the stigmas we're all trying so hard to defeat.

DEPRESSION: PASSION THIEF

I have been staring at this screen for an hour. This is the second sentence I've written. Three, if you count this one. How can there be so little on the page if I've got so much on my mind? Well, the short answer is, I have let my depression get the best of me. The long answer involves multiple diagnosis, wild mood swings, panic attacks, extreme mania, conversations with therapists, cognitive behavioral therapy, lots of drugs, side effects, and all sorts of other stuff that would make you either fall asleep or call the authorities. So... I have let my depression get the best of me.

I love to write. Depression doesn't care. It makes me feel better to create. Depression doesn't care. Depression... is an asshole. What happens is this: All of your passions get pushed aside, because depression has made you think they are not worthy of your time (or you're not worthy of theirs). Sometimes you wonder "Why bother", but most of the time it's more complicated than that. When it's hard to get out of bed for long enough to use the restroom, the last thing you want to do is get up and be passionate about something. Sometimes your self-esteem gets shot in the face, so you sit around thinking you're a horrible, talentless, worthless person. No one wants to hear what you have to say, and why would they? And sometimes you're just scared; afraid of the smallest amount of success. Because you don't feel like you deserve it.

Now, even if you realize these things are not true, Depression doesn't care. It is extremely difficult to fight off this negative way of thinking. In fact, I'm not even sure that's possible. The only way to fight it is to create just to spite it.

Depression takes away a lot. Everything and everyone gets lost in the shuffle at some point. There isn't anything in this world that depressed people hate more than depression. So why not get pissed at it? Go ahead! Tell it to go eat a fish smoothie! Tie it down! Make it listen to Kid Rock! Tell it where to go and what to do while it's there, because if you don't, it will continue to ruin your life.

I stared at this page for an hour before writing this. I'm not sure how long it took to write, but that's not important. What IS important is that I was able to stare for long enough to write.

MEDICATION RANT

Drugs. Fuckin drugs. Since my bipolar diagnosis, I have been on and off so many drugs, it's hard to believe I can still function. One goddamn pill after another. All of them prescribed by doctors claiming to be personal advocates... Handing out smiles and advice like psychiatric politicians. These drugs are supposed to help stabilize my mood, lessen my anxiety, help me rest more effectively, stimulate my appetite, and curb depression based panic attacks. Some have helped, and some have not, but they've all had two things in common: their potential for addiction, and their contribution to potential bankruptcy.

In the past four years, my family and I have spent thousands of dollars on prescription meds. We have also spent hundreds of days dealing with various withdrawals. If you're told a med is non-addictive, call bullshit. Because getting off of something like Prozac can be an absolutely terrifying experience.

I just din't get it. My prescription drugs have legitimate street value. Why? Because people will pay a lot to get fucked up. I suppose I could make back the money I spend on one bottle of Xanax by selling four or five pills, but I'm not a fucking drug dealer... I'm a patient!

Ahh, crap! I lost my train of thought. Wanna know why? BECAUSE I'M ON A LOT OF DRUGS! God damn it! Why can't it be just one? Why can't it be one that works, and doesn't cause addiction or withdrawal? Why can't there be just one that stabilizes moods, stimulates appetites, lessens anxiety, curbs panic attacks, helps with insomnia, and provides a sense of mental stability? Oh, wait. There IS a drug like that! Sorry. You can't take it, though. It isn't legal. The government is afraid of the munchies.

POSITIVE DAMN THINKING

Embrace the truth of yourself
In visions of hearts, and hand
Out small pieces
Of the dreams you have left

Behind you are the faults
You've tried so hard to hide
Those Shadow shapes
long
Gone in the rear view

What you see before you
Is a canvas of faith
To be painted with
Places only seen in your dreams
But not like the one about
Kicking cats in the face.

BIPOLAR to BIPOLAR: Who The Hell Do You Think You Are?

Time moves so slowly some nights. You've got part of what you want, but that part's not quite good enough. Not on evenings like this... when a minute seems like six. And you'd think, with all this extra time, you would wanna savor some of it. You might want to use some of it for fighting the demons that stand in your way... on a day in which you're smiling and enjoying your life. What do you do when five minutes feel fake, and take you by the hair on the back of your neck... twisting your mind in ways that make circles fit squares? How much of this makes sense?

None of it makes sense, you crazy douche! You're having a bad night, man. Don't crawl up in a ball like a turtle afraid of the dark. You're only alone in your mind. Your mind is the one that puts up the walls. Your life... your life is surrounded with people you love. And some of them might even love you back... if you can stop being a dip shit for long enough. Damn!

Stop being so REASONABLE, man!  I'm trying to be poetic.  When I'm feeling like a sad clown, I must articulate my feelings in an artistic way.  I must be profound.  Otherwise people might not take my discomforts seriously.  I am an advocate... nay! A SPOKESMAN for the people inside of my circle!  I cannot let them down by being... "reasonable".  I need to take a chance... touch a nerve.  If I don't pack what I write with as much depressing evil shit as I can... they might not think I'm on their side.  And that's important because it's all about THEM. If I'm not careful, I'll be more of a self-help writer than a fellow mentally ill person.  

Well, what's wrong with that?  It's not about them, it's about YOU.  Why not be your own favorite self-help author?  Nobody else matters but you.  If you don't think YOU are important, how can you expect anyone else to feel you're important?  Write your OWN way to feeling better.

Yeah! To hell with Wayne Dyer!  To hell with Neale Donald Walsch!  The Dali Lama?  What does HE know?  

Well, now you're just being manic.  Slow down.  I didn't say you shouldn't READ.  I didn't say you should stop trying to EDUCATE yourself.  Again... how can you educate others if you're not educated enough to teach them anything? 

Okay.  Okay.  You're right.  That makes sense.  So... 

I'm right.  That's it.  "So" nothing.  Read. Learn. Write. Educate.  YA GOT THAT?!

Wow, dude!  Yeah... you had me at "crazy douche".  No need to yell.  I'm fragile... and poetic.

Ugh!  I'm never allowed to have the last word.

NIGHT TERROR

It's very late. Some might even call it early. 2:47 a.m. I've always said I loved the night, but this... this is the morning. I keep telling myself and everyone around me that I want to get better; that I'm moving forward, and getting ready to set things right. But how can that really be true when I allow myself to stay up all night? I'm not functioning like the rest of the world... how can I expect to be a part of it? I think I might need some help here.

MENTAL ILLNESS AND PINK FLOYD: THE UNKNOWN MEDICATION

It is rare to be asked what depression feels like... or how it feels to be uncontrollably manic.  Phrases like "snap out of it", "why are you acting so crazy", and "Maybe this pill will help", come to mean very different things.  It is rare to get asked how it feels to be overwhelmed by anxiety for weeks at a time, or what goes through  a mind when a panic attack hits me while driving 75 on the highway.  People say, "just relax, take a deep breath", or to "go with the flow".  But does anyone really want to know how it feels for a person to be obsessed with keeping their hands clean, or how terrifying it is to meet new people or to be in a room full of strangers?  I think a lot of work can be done to improve these stigmas.  However...

Many times it does not seem like people want to understand.  They demand, we disappoint.  They roll their eyes, we isolate.  And while it may be true to a certain degree that people's hearts are in the right place (and some are, don't get me wrong), how can a person help without also having the desire to learn?  It's rare to see books in their hands, or magazines opened to pages concerning social anxiety or - insert condescending label here - . Some are told many times to read said articles or books them self, but that desire to learn doesn't seem to extend to many people without mental concerns of their own (as if anybody is prone to being fucking crazy).  Most people are in the dark, but since they're not the one's who spend most of their time alone in a room, someone else is expected to spend more time in the sun.  How can they not see that their light looks different than ours?

I'm often reminded of a verse from a Pink Floyd song called TIME: "The sun is the same in a relative way, but you're older - shorter of breath - and one day closer to death."  Now, that line may be interpreted in a completely different way by every person I know.  THAT is the magic of music.

To get that magic to work the way it was intended to work, however, people need to ask others how THEY feel about the spells cast upon them.  A dialogue must be started.  Minds need to be open to new ideas.  A genuine interest must be present.  Otherwise the music just sits there unobserved, and alone.  The magic within it never has a chance to change a life, or make a friend, or... spend any time in the SUN.  It will only ever be the same in a relative way.  People only become older and shorter of breath, and every day they choose not to ask how the sun feels to others, is one more day they go without understanding how the same sun effects them.