Perversions most vile
Take place in dreams of the soul
Made flesh in the mind
Journal Entry 7/6/08, 22 years old, 4.5 years after diagnosis.
Right now I’m normal headed towards mania because I haven’t taken my meds properly and it’s that time of year for my mood to swing up.
I feel oddly not liberated, but snuffed, decomposed, old, frail, lost, worthless. My drive I always knew is gone, I despise it, loathe it. My only source of creativity is what I write here perhaps these entire past few months; this year if it weren’t for that manic spurt I had earlier. I fail at finding work and jobs on my own. I work for dad’s office now, and I’m even slacking at that. I grow fat on fat food, and non stop video game sessions. My computer is now broken so I watch TV in the meantime.
I feel people take sympathy for me; worry that my roommates talk about me behind their backs about my laziness, poor hygiene, room cleanliness, eating habits, wearing the same clothes every day, day after day.
Where does drive come from? Success? Hard work? I’m “normal” now for me. I used to be able to live, touch, and taste these things. But now, they are out there, irreducibly complex. Routines scream at me and I can’t get up and keep up with them.
Then comes my future. How could I possibly understand what I want if I’ve been bipolar since early childhood? I’ve proven how clever and deceitful I can be with hiding my symptoms when I want to, bordering on if not becoming a criminal mind. I’ve dropped that now, it seems – it’s all lost to me, exhausting to even try to start to think about and in that mindset. But I have been doing that my whole life. I’m 22 years old, and truly a complete loser – parents pay everything, I’m slow, outdated, dry, lack interests, perverted, I smoke… At least I don’t drink much, have sex, or do drugs…
The point is I feel dead without those loopy chemicals. Perhaps the way I handle it now, I really am dead. How do I get past this? I sense that will be the under-attended direction that keeps popping up in my thoughts in the future. Will I ever figure out the miracles of normalcy, in work, routines? I’m scared I never will.