I never fear missing out because I am constantly thinking about why I do things and it is exhausting and it is maddening and it is counterproductive at times - but to me, intention is everything. When you spend so much time writing, thinking, understanding madness and illness it surely follows that you must make something of it - so I've made this - but then also, perhaps, it follows, that you must show something for it - again, maybe this - and finally, maybe, you utilise Occam's razor.
Why am I mad? I have two answers: the world has made me so, or my body and subconscience is trying to tell me something. Occam's razor - the simpler answer is answer two, because I really don't know what the entire world has against me in particular. That's just how it can feel when you're battling an invisible enemy. You think to yourself - well, who unleashed this on me? Was it me? Was it you? Was it someone else? Why did they do it?
My intention with this is to get better. I will repeat that as many times as I have to.
Recovery has been the entire purpose of my existence in the final years of my twenties - and for the first time in my whole life I actually stopped and went, I have to take care of myself. Like really take care of myself. And I struggle. I can't just think about it, I can't just imagine it will happen - if I overwork myself to the point of delirium - or when I just am, for whatever unknown reasons, suffering from an acute mental health disorder - then I have to do whatever it takes for me to stay alive, be present, and be back in life in order to thrive. It's a lot more challenging than it is indulgent.
The timeline has gone out the window. All these years of academia later - something, which was always indirectly emphasised in my family and which I have managed to enforce to the best of my abilities on myself, despite choosing and being inclined to a career in the arts - all of this - it's taught me one thing: nothing is more precious than finding my happiness and inner peace. And I am so proud of the progress I am making, the therapy I have done diligently for years now, and all the sacrifices I have made to arrive at this point. Artistic pursuits mixed with academic pursuits to justify them and then learning to accept failure as an integral part of this journey - all the while understanding that it's not just failure, it's also reconciling with the fact that it's one thing to be dehumanised in various ways, it's another thing entirely to then internalise that dehumanisation. It's a lot. The pressure becomes immense. Extremes become a coping mechanism, and I self-medicated until I realised I just couldn't do it anymore. I have to slow down. I don't have to explain. I'll tolerate the consequences, but it's better than pushing myself right over the edge to the point of no return.
So, I choose life, my way - as hard and scary as that is - and yes it does involve bipolarity and manic depression - but it also means, when I'm happy, it radiates. Everything shines so brightly it's blinding. I feel more content with my path then any other path - even when it's really hard - and it is. I do wonder at times if it's really worth it. And then I realise, yes, it really is.
To life.
With love, an elegant cheescake, raspberries, cherries, blackberries, redcurrants, my 30th birthday, a stunning island, and a glowing, warm soul, that will always carry a heart and mind that thinks and feels too much - I am sending the sweetest wishes out to the future.
It'll get dark again, but we'll find the light again, too.
To everyone reading this: I have nothing but love for you, and I wish you eternal peace & happiness.