Didn't somebody say something to the effect of "knowing when it's him I'm talking to or the bipolar I'm talking to," I can't remember. Some vague memory of a book I read or a show I listened to about living with bipolar or living with a bipolar person. Trying to track it down.
It's days like today that make me give up hoping, with thoughts turning to suicided ideation. Everything is too intense. It physically hurts. I'll burst into hysterics, either laughing or uncountable gasping sobbing. And then I'll just start yelling with the kind of intensity you only see in a bipolar or a cracked out loon having a psychotic break. Hopeless because it has been like this for 20 years now. And the decade before that was a nightmare. When I was younger I believed people when they said I'd get better, or things would get better. I had hope. Not so anymore. It gets worse with time.
And so I don't put up with people telling me it will get better somehow.
I was pushed into the arts at a very young age. Creativity is rampant in my family, especially in the visual fields. I was sent to a magnet school for visual art, and went to art school afterwards.
People romanticize bpd. They ushered me into painting and art history because I had a 'flare' and because I was 'special'. Fuck that. It pisses me well the hell off when people have a van Gogh print book or a Rimbaud book on the coffee table, where you can have a little peak now and again in the safety and comfort of your own home, where you can show off your little trinkets to your house guests. Mental illness is so glamorous and sexy and romantic when it's a century old or a thousand miles away, or in a book or a film.
"Oh, you're a painter are you? You must be very tortured, how marvelous!"
I often miss painting. I miss working in art departments, i miss my studio, and my shop. My heart kind of died around 21 or 22, but I kept going. Plodding through my 20s. Clocking in. Painting paintings. Having shows. Selling pieces. Doing all the various things adjacent to visual art and architecture and design I did for a living... And then I just had one or two or three breakdowns too many, and became too ashamed to show my face in town. To my friends and peers, to my clients, to my gallery, to my family, to my ex... And I limped away. I closed up shop, moved out of the studios, put everything in storage, and left, closed down everything, left my gallery.. I removed my internet presence. Gave everything I had to everyone who wanted it. I left it all behind.
And then I left the country for a while.
That's a long story about nothing. I could go on and on. I was encouraged along in the arts, from childhood, throughout my education, and long after my heart was broken, after it wasn't in it anymore. I thought it was meds or lack of meds. Maybe it was the love of my life leaving me and never being able to get over that, I associated all of my work and education and all of my painting and passion for it, everything for that person. It ended badly, and I never really recovered. I began having panic attacks when I was left. That was 2001. I'm now 33. Over a decade of my life is missing. It gets worse with time and age. Lose hope, get old, lose more hope of getting better as you get worse, get even older, get worse, no hope.
I need to get help. I'm not due in until the 24th, no way to get in sooner. I'm thinking more and more that I'm going to have to Baker Act myself real soon here. I should gather up what family I have in the area and tell them somehow what is going on with me, and how they can help, because I'm not gonna be around much longer at this rate, not without a tremendous amount of help.
Thing is, my family is magnitudes of orders more fucked up than I am. So, no go there.