My Bipolar Journal - Episode 226

My Bipolar Journal – Episode 226

January 3, 2009

Just watched Elizabethtown again and it leaves me asking the question… who's left? Not many. It's dwindled down to just a few that are barely there. Some of them will be back, some of them may not and it's impossible to know who. I had a friend who was supposed to make sure things got taken care of and he was kidnapped by the god of People Who Think They're Better Than Everyone Else. You and your 12 invisible steps of being better than me can blow my ass. Next in line? Not even speaking to me. Next in line? Can't even tell if he's speaking to me.

I'm sorry I'm so damned picky and so damned stubborn and so damned forgiven, but really it's just left me damned. I don't want there to be anyone else. I had hand-picked you all so perfectly and you sit there beyond me perfectly without me. Without giving me a chance to explain or without a chance to an explanation. And I still want you all back. I don't want anyone else. There are plenty of volunteers, but I dismiss them because it just doesn't compare and I can't settle for second best. It's not in my nature. I'd rather have no one know what it is that I need and want. I'd rather leave the remains to the sharks and would willingly do so, but that doesn't make it hurt any less.

I don't want people to feel sorry for me. I just want to get it out. I want to put everything out there all the time. I don't care about the fairy tale of "too much information". It's apparently not too much information if I choose to share it and you choose to read it.

I don't really know what to expect from writing these things down all the time. Sometimes I get things I never expected, but mostly all I get is things off my chest. Sometimes I think it through and realize I'm a dumbass and erase everything I wrote. Sometimes I hope secretly (even though I don't want to admit it) that someone I'm eluding to will read this and figure something out for themselves. Sometimes the world just disturbs me. Sometimes my brain fights through the insanity and then recoils in fear of normalcy.

I suppose sometimes it's like Tolkien and you can write and entire novel based on seeing a blade of grass and describing it for 66 chapters into a fantasy world that you wish you were in with that one blade of grass. Sometimes people read your fantasy and it's the best thing they've ever read and sometimes they find the endless description painful and wish it could be shortened into a 9 hour movie trilogy because at least they see the appeal. Others wonder why anyone would use their imagination to such an extent in the first place and continue to figure out how to make their real life fit into a fantasy scrapbook that they wish it was, or at least that they've seen in magazines and on TV.

I feel lost. My anchors are missing and they were the last three I had on the ship, so I'll just keep floating and land wherever fate decides to plop me.