There. I said it. I’m done trying to be Mr. Happy-Solution-Creative all the time. I Am Me. I am broken, washed-up, frightened, addicted, potty-mouthed, perverted, Star-Trek-Voyager-liking, bi-polar Me. I’ve started writing this “first blog of the year” seven times now, in the time it’s taken most people to post a dozen pictures of meals they’ve eaten, or else make pithy comments about child-rearing, or dog/cat owning, or tennis, or flan, or whatever, on facebook or twitter or twitface or whatever the latest social media craze is.
And that’s fine. But I realize I’ve been trying to hold up this mantle, on this site, on my social media presence, just as a creative professional as a whole, of being some sort of constant light-being, always showing the positive, bringing in the joy, even if I was feeling completely fucked up and destitute inside and wishing not just I but all of humanity would blow up and die. It’s a little identity I like to call "ever-adaptable-Adam", a person I invented when I was probably no older than six, when it became clear to me that the only way I could survive was to try and please everyone else.
And it worked like a dream for a while, in that I didn’t die (more on racism and school bullying later). Then as the years went on I noticed that no matter how hard I tried to please everyone, people would still get offended, still get angry at my actions, still have their little diva fits or temper tantrums when I didn’t meet their exact needs. And I would either myself get sucked into this vortex, or else I would swallow any feelings I had towards them, not wanting to hurt anyone, trying to please everyone, and in fact I would try harder to please them more. And that brings me to where I find myself now, an underappreciated wannabe lightworker with mental problems.
Yeah, so you may have noticed the "bi-polar" bit up top. I got my diagnosis a week ago. I took forever to get diagnosed, despite years of showing clear, clear, symptoms of both mania and depression, because, frankly, I knew that a diagnosis would come with the suggestion (read: understanding) that I take medication. I am now taking medication. It is a choice, and it is helpful. I was rapid-cycling last year at an accelerating rate--by the end of the year it was almost every forty-eight hours--and to relieve not only myself, but my wife and family, from the pressure of constantly having to deal with major bi-polar symptoms (you can look them up; I present in a “mixed-state” for the most part) is something for which I am grateful.
But I fucking hate the fact that I am on meds. For the past fifteen years I have been studiously crafting a regimen of self-care that involves diet, exercise, yoga, meditation, prayer, self-examination, and all sorts of what might be seen as hippy-dippy stuff, none of which I can ever truly knock because it has all basically helped me not completely fall off the rails at every moment, because every moment for as long as I can remember, I have had deep depression and/or mania.
The point is that I am a firm believer in natural methods, and health viewed as a holistic practice. If I just stayed in balance, I believed I could... well, stay in balance. The fact that I am now popping a pill twice a day to alter my brain chemistry, even with all the positive effects, again, for which I am grateful, eats at my soul and makes me feel like I’ve failed, and moreover that I’m somehow colluding with the enemy. Probably sounds stupid. But it’s where I am. And fuck off if I’m expected to lie about that any more.
Do I sound angry? Yeah. You bet I do. I am angry. I am angry because, and this might offend you, but it’s because I’ve put you first all these years. It’s been my choice so to do, and I accept that. But I ain’t doing it that way any more. I’m saying yes to me. And that might mean I say no to you. I don’t know if anyone out there can understand that. We are still so expected to fulfil the needs and expectations of others, rather than giving to ourselves and being who the fuck we are.
Self-love has to, has to, has to, be the fundamental driving force of the world I live in and that I create. I’m starting to see this. And sometimes to get to that takes anger. And, yes, I’ll say it again, I’m angry, because I have allowed myself to be a doormat for others to feel validated upon for pretty much my entire life. And for all I know that’s the reason why I--not you--am popping pills now. I have subsconded (not a word but should be) my happiness time and again to keep others safe, I have hidden the truth I experience to keep others comfortable. That ends now. And anyone who can’t get behind that, well, we’re not going to have a lot to talk about.
I’m on a mission, and at this point you all damned well know it. You want to help? Then help. You know my number. Call it. Otherwise, I’ve got work to do. And that’s fine. Go love yourself, and go and be who it is you are. And I’m going to do the same. And together we might create an awesome world where everyone actually loves themselves. That’s a difference I’m willing to give my life to try and make. So I’ll be around, popping pills, doing whatever it is I have to do to stay on mission. Just don’t expect smiley happy people all the time anymore.
Okay, just this once...