Long time, no write

Yeah, I’ve been busy, sort of. Up and down, as usual, that same sort of sadhappysad that only people with an unlucky constitution or set of stars can know. In my main career, the one I keep trying to buy stability with, I’ve only been half-assing it. Fortunately, I’ve been lucky so far and not called out on anything big, but have a big day coming up next Friday for which I have barely prepared. I am hoping this week will go slightly better, but who knows?

It’s the restlessness that gets you every time…gets me every time. The same restlessness that sent Byron to Greece. I have been doing lots of things, even a lot of writing. But nothing purposeful. Spinning wheels. Maybe it is time to change meds. I have been neglecting sleep for maybe three weeks now. Not totally, but never quite sleeping a normal night. Maybe 3-6 AM, I sleep.

One hard lesson that took many years to learn was for me to not feel guilty for feeling bad. I wish the modern world were more accommodating of people like me, who do contribute to society, but not at a steady, even, work-drone pace. I need these times to admit that I feel bad, to curl up in bed, recover for the next round. It isn’t such a horrible thing. I’ve never much minded being depressed (it’s the mixed episodes that kill me, feeling horrible and no peace), as long as I really can curl up in bed, read, sleep 18-20 hours a day. The problem started when I was 12, and my parents and doctors and the school system, everyone, just kept screaming at me to get up and move. Maybe I’m not made that way. Maybe I (and a lot of us) are more cyclical creatures – having periods of flame and fire, learning languages and producing and mastering professions in short periods. And yes, those times are often as filled with suffering as the down times, the hibernations…but no one needs to add societal disapproval. I can’t help the way I am. I can help all kinds of other things – like not dragging other people down with me, not breaking laws, not taking welfare from others – but I cannot help being who I am. Maybe you wish I were different; hell, even I wish I were different, but I was born this way. I am what God made me, if you prefer.

Getting to accept this, with no blame or stigma, was one of the hardest personal challenges I’ve faced. It took years. It is a story for another time. Bottom line: stigma helps no one.

Again, I am conflicted by my dual nature. My day job, the serious one I chose at the expense of my wild side, choosing at the time to choose a stable life, unlike the one of my manic father, my brother the screenwriter, is slowly eroding away my soul. I thought that by hard work in an alien field, a respectable field, I could buy a respectable woman’s soul. But I can’t. I feel like I am drowning. I hate it. It is not fair to clients.

This weekend I was at the ocean at sunrise. It was breathtakingly beautiful, after a storm, with a confused sea and strange swell. There was a beautiful man there, someone way out of my league, something I know even when I’m manic – far too tall, dark, and beautiful for me. And he was nice. And normal. I know I can never have someone like that, but now that I’m in a serious life, I can’t even fuck him once. Life without that seems unbearably long. Not the fucking, but the possibility, the possibility of adventure.

And this huge thing at my respectable life’s job is hanging over me, and all I can feel is resentment, and avoidance, and I miss my real soul, the one my cruel father understands, the one that buys chariots, and writes, and sculpts. But you aren’t allowed to do any of that where I am now.

Hardly anyone reads this blog, and I have certainly neglected it, but I just now went back and looked at it again after a few months. I rather like it. It is honest. There are lots of topics I want to hit. I think I may write about the onset of my illness/nature/whatever it is. It started very young for me, and really went undiagnosed and untreated for so long that I grew up and only know myself as being like this; normalcy bought by pharmacopoeia never feels quite right. I am not sure if this is good or bad. It would probably be an interesting idea to revisit my first major episode.

What can I do to quiet this thundery thump in my gut? Then, if I did that, maybe I could come back to being Respectable Sara. Sail the Indian Ocean? Hitchhike through Tanzania? Run away? Finish writing a book? The pull of the respectable life keeps me from doing any of those things. Why does it look so fucking tempting? It isn’t. It is full of staid, boring assholes. But they don’t seem as miserable as all the crazy people in my family. They act like adults. But what the fuck do I know about people like that? Maybe they are just better at hiding their despair.

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2 Comments

  1. I love your blog. Its vert honest. However you seem to look down on those of us that are on disability. I can tell you this I seem to experience the same symptoms as you but my incapacitating depressions last for months with a manic break of about 1 week every 2 months. Having to ask for financial help shouldn’t be stigmatized either.

  2. No offense or judgment intended.


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