So, this is what it looks like to be manic. The idea that I could have such an issue never crossed my mind until about half an hour ago. But so much of my life and my struggle makes sense to me now.
(Quoted from Wikipedia):
A manic episode is defined in the American Psychiatric Association's diagnostic manual as a period of seven or more days (or any period if admission to hospital is required) of unusually and continuously effusive and open elated or irritable mood, where the mood is not caused by drugs or a medical illness (e.g., hyperthyroidism), and (a) is causing obvious difficulties at work or in social relationships and activities, or (b) requires admission to hospital to protect the person or others, or (c) the person is suffering psychosis.[9]
How do I die to this? I've been awake for almost 44 hours with only brief nap times in between. I've been distracted since I can remember. I make messes so quickly and easily, you would think I was an animal-- lacking the cognitive ability to conceive the consequences of my disregard for proper placement and care of items of value. I leave shit around and I don't take care of things, even things that are special to me.
I find my emotions are often exaggerated. I'm either in a great mood (more likely with strangers), or I'm finding myself irritated (with loved ones) and unable to pinpoint why. Sure, I know what I find frustrating, but why do I let it bother me so?
I've lost so much weight in the last few months.
I've gone on self-pleasing binges with cigarettes, and alcohol, and weed, and porn.
My relationship with my wife is looking hopeless-- completely destroyed by decisions I've made in the past, and my lack of ability to meet her where she's at. I'm often so busy judging her for being so self-seeking, that I miss my own narcissistic tendency (at least at the time).
I want to rap. I have so many grandiose ideas of how I will impact with the world with this amazing gift that god has given me. I never follow through, though. I'm sitting on songs that are over 2 years old. I get new ideas, bigger ideas, all the time. They are piled in a stack of what I haven't achieved. And that feeling. I have completely fostered that feeling of vague importance mixed with disappointment. And that feeling has kept me from my family, my friends, and the people I love.
And I'm so tired it seems like my brain is literally made of Jell-O. My head hurts. And I can physically feel this dull, wobbly sensation in the center of my skull, but I can't tell if it's my soul or my body.
And it's like I'm fighting it. It's like my defenses are confused, and my troops have turned to friendly fire for lack of understanding the enemy. So I fight the feeling of tired. And I fight the knowledge of necessity for rest. And I press on.
And I could sit here and try to conjure up some bold and insightful meaning or reason why I'm so desperately self-destructive. But upon have received such a vision into my own neuropsychology, I realize that no dreamt-up self-diagnosis would alleviate my own curiosity or dissatisfaction with my current state.
This I know: I am sick.
I have to try to close my eyes before the sun comes up and the traffic starts clamoring outside my main-road, bedroom window. I need to try to find sleep. Imaginably, I will receive phone calls in the next few hours, prompting me to arise and face the day.
----
On a completely other topic: I am capable of thinking and writing this way. I'm not being insincere. This is genuine and authentic AP shit right here.
As was my letter to my "friends" after many months of having their backs turned on me because of my sin against another friend. I was charged with not being real in my letter. I was told that it didn't sound like me.
And while I realized later that there was a discrepancy with some terminology I used regarding my sin and the nature thereof, I am still struggling to forgive those people who so Christlessly rejected me in my time of need.
And this issue came up because I write this blog, these raps, poems, and even that letter from an informed, intellectual, and broken state. Sometimes enlightened, but often slightly fucked. And I don't see how (no matter what my sin) someone could claim that a work of words, extending from an artist who struggles to comprehend and actualize the value and meaning and purpose of words, could be so misjudged.
----
I said the word fuck. I don't care about your man-made-road-to-holiness anymore. After trying to walk down that road, it's a wonder I even care to walk at all.
I don't love you right now. Any of you. And that's just damned honesty. And that's just poetic irony.
Thanks for reading. I feel like swearing a lot, and it's getting brighter. Probably time to call it.
-=soul.ILL=-
August 6th, 2011
5:54 am
(time of post)
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