Hello you stressed, well dressed, manic depressed … you makers, fakers, movers and shakers, you piss takers. Welcome dreamers, screamers, drivers of beemers and in-betweeners. Hey there slackers and hackers, you forward and backers. A nod to (overunder) achievers, believers, decievers and lonesome leavers. You’re generation x, the last time you had sex, you hated that president too. And if rhyme was a crime, bipolars would do time, so hello to the whole freaking zoo.
I know now that my tendency to do that stems from this. It’s a handy little diagnostic tool, because I only do it when my brain is wound to mania. In my 30s, I thought I should have been born a few centuries earlier so that I could be a jongleur. I spent some years fairly compulsively writing poetry, rhymes, rap – and then it simply vanished; it doesn’t happen much anymore and never quite a fluidly as it did then. My mother and my grandfather had a similar thing. I reckon the great (immortal?) poets do it properly though. Hypomanic, I think my writing is good. Manic, I think it’s stupendous, but it’s frequently disordered shit and meaningless riffs. When I regain insight, it’s a retrospective diagnostic tool.
Thank you Saint Stephen, of the unholy order of bipolar disorder.
(It’s day 10 of my mixed state, but despite my verbosity and verbal tics here, I feel as though I’m coming down a bit.)
The next quote is from the second link on the list and I love eeeet, because since my own diagnosis, research and reading, I equate mental illness with pain and illness, not the generally accepted tweet tweet, cuckoo version of madness.
Okay, but the main diagnostic we use for mental illness is suffering.
These links are #longreads and they’re all from the fringe of intellectual coolness. They are not about bipolar, but some of them in some ways are still about us.
I was strapped to the bed, loaded up on drugs, and the florescent light in the ceiling cast this glow that cascaded down, and I had a sense of the presence of God.
an interview with a therapist who was once insane
You can be convinced that every streetlight is an angel as long as you walk past them and to your own door.
crazy in love
The apartment is so full and so empty at the same time; absence is a presence like dark matter and black holes.
the secret life of a crime scene cleaner
the intersection between religion and mental illness
“You’re very pretty, you know,” he said, and flicked a small cockroach off the wall.
18hrs in tel aviv bus station
Gusts of wind blew candy wrappers across the building’s atrium, and clusters of flies buzzed overhead.
emptying the tower of david (caracas, venezuela)
Then a homeless man took up residence in a shipping container, and everything changed.
everybody loves walter (california, usa)
“It is as if a site that previously had no special meaning takes on a sacred quality once human blood has been spilled there,”
burdens of grief
We are among the tribe of the Wannabes: non-Native Americans who insist on claiming Indian heritage.
why do so many people pretend to be native american?
That’s why we cling to our memories so hard, even to our detriment sometimes—they seem the only bulwark we have against the erosion of the self.
the amnesiac who changed the way we think about memory
Alright, I might be clear of mania now. Not sure yet.