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Tootsie Roll Eater

Making friends tends to be difficult for some people. Those awkward years in high school, those awkward years of college, those awkward years of the rest of your life. For someone with BD, it is harder than you think. I tend to attract “friends” who need me to serve them. I call these people “takers”. They are like the kids that reach in and take ALL of the Halloween candy, leaving you with a tootsie roll. This makes me the kid that gratefully chokes down the tootsie roll, and tells the other kid “way to go” for being so cool as to take all of the candy like a bad ass.

This illness causes an extreme sense of sensitivity, and insecurity. The other kids will not accept you unless you eat the stale tootsie roll. This act of tootsie roll eating gives them power over you because you do not speak up and say, “fuck you, give me one of those KitKats!” You do not have to have BD to experience this type of habitual self deprivation, you may know yourself as the tootsie roll eater. The problem with BD, is that most of us are grateful for the tootsie roll. This is not a good thing. I don’t fucking like tootsie rolls.

I allow the few friends that I have had to walk all over me. While I savor the sour, rancid taste of the old tootsie roll in order to be accepted; I still choke on a gross piece of candy. What about the BD’s that make friends like KitKats? I have no idea. Those are the super BD’s. I know nothing of them.

How do we make friends? How do you make friends?

The few friends that I have acquired, use me until I am empty. I allow it. Why? My brain has not told me yet. I recently had the blind, drunken courage to cut a friend of fifteen years out of my life. Why? Because she never cared for me, while I ran myself into the ground making her happy. This took, for me, incredible strength. Thankfully, I do not regret it. The problem with me, is that I have a hard time making friends. I do not act “normal”. I go from depressed to manic at the blink of a eye, I isolate, I have trouble communicating, I generally fall apart if someone expresses displeasure with me. These qualities are problematic while making a friend. I am a wonderfully kind and compassionate person, I will do anything to help someone who needs me, however, I am also crazy as fuck.

As I blindly walk into age thirty-two, I ask politely for a KitKat. I have yet to get one. At best, I get four more tootsie rolls. It boils down to people wanting to use you. Those that do not want to use you, struggle to understand your craziness. At least they try. I am tired of writing this post because I was recently devastated by one of my “friends”, again. I need to live with other tootsie roll eaters, that way, we can all share a KitKat.

Fuck Tootsie Rolls.

 

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Who Are We?

It has been a while since I have written. It would be quite a bit easier if someone was here to read my rants. I have progressed a lot in my illness. My mental illness… silence. The over-diagnosed, over-medicated, mysterious mental illness named Bi-Polar Disorder. I do not know why they have changed the name from Manic Depression to Bi-polar Disorder. It seems pretty stupid to me. It is the same illness. My Grandfather was a Manic Depressive. I am a Bi-Polar Disorders persons of some sort, either classified as Bi-Polar 1 or Bi-Polar 2. I really think they are blowing this not only out of proportion but also out of their asses. Yes, I am talking about doctors, and their ring masters, the pharmaceutical companies. Coming soon – Bi-Polar Disorder 3! Featured in a mental institution near you!

Depression is a oh-so-scary word. Lets make it happy, shall we? Bi-Polar Disorder, feel how it just slides of the tongue? I do not see the point of changing the name of a illness that remains unchanged. Either way, you will be prescribed a drug, which may or may not work. Pretty, candy-like pills. Speaking of which, when did it become legal to advertise prescription drugs via television? Not only do you have your doctor selling you a drug, but now you have the pharmaceuticals telling you which drugs your doctor should be selling you. Me spies a pattern. Don’t mistake me, I have been through my fair share. Fifteen years of searching for help in the pill pushing community. You cannot deny, some of them work. However, most of them do not. For me, I have found that the two medications that I am using, were never intended to treat my illness, but they actually do. How funny is that?

I am struggling with what this blog is destined to be. I am writing this honestly. I do not want to hold back anything that I write. The writing process can show the mood, and this illness is all about changing moods. Changing moods, and deep suffering. How can you truly know who you are when you can change so rapidly? What happens when you take someone with this illness, and add a dash of PTSD, a shake of personal trauma, a pinch of the death of a loved one? We change. We are a unique breed of humans. The difference between having this illness and being told that you have this illness is one factor alone. In your heart you will know. It will not be a excuse for your behavior, it is your behavior. It will not be a excuse for your actions, they are your actions. You will know you in a deep way, a way that others cannot. We are sick, are we not?

What happens if we are just humanity evolving? What does it mean if we are the new creation of the universal brain? We care more, we suffer more, we are confused more. What can happen if we stop defining ourselves to what others are? What if we believe that “we”, all of us with this bitch of a “illness”, may be the beginning of a new human understanding?

Are we the fore-leaders to compassion and thought? Are we the descendant of the first man to stop and weep for the lost kitten, for the child left behind, for the man that died blindly, for the woman who gave her soul to the devil? How many people do you know that actually care? I do. This illness will force you too. That is the key. Maybe it is not us, maybe it is the world. The world is large and unified. Take your drugs so that you can be “normal”. What the fuck is great about being normal? Look to your average high school, look to your average working class man or woman. This is normal? I bypass the medication that makes me like anyone else. I take the medication that allows me to survive. We can do this, all together. We do not have to be “sick”. We are as much Bi-Polar as we are Disorder.

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Wait.. wait a minute.

I have spent all of this blog time either writing as I see fit or talking about the pain of my disease. This disease is mostly pain. A pain felt both mentally and physically. What inspired this post is pain. Pain of compassion. I have more compassion than most, almost as much as my mother, less than my Grandfather. What inspires in us this compassion?

This disease is so unlike what the drug markets tell you. It is not a cold depression, not a passing madness. It is else.

I was born with it, as my mother, as her brothers, as her father. Only two of said five are left standing.. and on shaking knees.

Today as my world moved around me, most of said movement offends me. I have questioned this “compassion” I have. I have always said and thought to myself  “I know” this compassion is my enemy. What if it is not?

Eye.. there is the rub. What if unlike the others who condemn me and “my compassion”, “my weakness”  it is nothing other than some sort of greatness? (I know what you are thinking but no, I do NOT think I am great nor those who have suffered from it in the past). But just what, what if? We are a different breed. A unique breed.

Christ was said to be compassion and love. And the bulk of you claim to  follow his name in war and church, both which speak nothing of love or compassion.

I hurt myself and deem myself weak for it, this “compassion” I always have. I cut myself and cry, I vomit my food and listen to your judgement that I am “this” and I am “that”. Perhaps my disease is giving me something you do not know.

The ability to recognize that I am different. The ability to survive it and above all. The ability to FEEL it.

What inspires this?

A spider web.

A simple spider web I did not realize was being affected by my movements. A simple web my movements almost destroyed. For he was attached to my porch swing. I was unaware. How he was affected. Like the breeze blowing upon him, he stood graceful. But in my mind. I had affected, changed, hurt his world. What had he done to me? Nothing. What had I done to him? Ruined his web, his life, his means of survival.

Would you have noticed? Would you have cared? I think not.

But, to those out there like me at least we see it. My friend, who I hope forgives my invasive fumbling and my ” I own the world, human, I never effect anything” mentality. My spider, whom I begged for forgiveness.

Cheers.