the theme of loss
Where to begin. I have been writing in adult terms since I was probably a freshman in high school. By adult terms, I mean that my writing considers the question of my inner life and its development, which might be a particular Western and modern idea. I am not convinced of that really. We all wonder where the fuck we are we going. By the term loss I really mean years lost to bipolar (I). 13 years to be exact. I consider my recovery as beginning in 2016, gaining full steam in 2018, and sorta finish in 2020.
And by referencing the very question of this theme, I am asking the question: will this theme overshadow other ones? In the end, you have to start somewhere or in my case restart somewhere.
I am now living at a new line. When I first started to 'decompensate', I first actually developed an incredible intuition. That story will have to wait. This blog entry is about the utter fucking pain of dreams deferred. The question of Black American will have to also wait. But Hughes is relevant in a subjective and transcendent sense. How many late nights did I stay up wondering why no one will response to my job applications despite my education? How many late nights did I not even try? I now do no longer have the luxury of not trying. That is the real reason why I am writing these words. Necessity have upset me to much that I have to write. Journaling has never really appealed to me. I have benefited from some journaling and, more so, creative note taking but blogging - and increasingly confessional blogging - has become more important.
Some of my confession will not see the light of day for several decades as they implicate others; and they implicate me. Other confessions I hope to share in a script. Yet other confession I share here. I have addressed my diagnosis elsewhere online almost certainly. I worry that is dominates my narrative; and yet it has dominate my nature in natural or at least diagnostic terms, which people take to be natural. That distinction will also have to wait.
Bipolarity has robbed me of my youth. Is that how I want to really articulate this theme? No. But to say it outland is necessary catharsis. Defining bipolarity is another question that must wait. The short and preferred interpretation of bipolarity is that we are sensitive people - set here on a mission to help full-scale enlightenment of the planet, not the mere intellectual movement of Europe. And yet, I feels at time that I was robbed. I have to fortify myself. Look past the injury. I know a Guyanese-American economist who used to teach me. He speaks of 'grit'. I think I have grit. But having seen my mistakes and shortcomings, I am left with an uncertain clarity on this grit. I also do not know what his vision of grit involves. Can his vision of grit overcome three psychoses? Mine can.
When is it too late? My father died in my arms last year. I am not certain that I want to write about it. It seems sensationalistic. Too late is when you pass on. That is when it is too late for absolute certain. Both my parents are gone. I have two blood aunt - one on a reservation and another in Europe. I need a job that will not make me want to peal the skin of my body. I can't continue in my current school for reasons that are not that interesting - namely I want to attend a 'better' school. Indeed: first world problems. And yet they are not less felt and impactful.