Routine

I understand why people need routine in their lives.  Especially with psychological disorders, it becomes a handrail guiding you through your problems and providing stability.  Personally however, I find that routine is actually more destructive and I like to use an old Japanese saying that applies to melee combat (martial arts) as well as insouciance:  You can be the dock, hard and firm, unmoved by the waves.  Or you can be the boat, riding on the tide.  When the typhoon comes the dock will break and the boat will wash away.
The boat comes away unharmed, whereas the dock facing a greater force invariably snaps.  Think of time as a force, because it is.  It moves in one direction, forward.  It may move at a constant rate though we populate it with the things that we require of it.  Now imagine our populated time as an assembly line.  Assembly lines are a magical way to manage time effectively.  This is the very vision of routine.  However, one small break in the routine, one failure in the assembly line and things begin to build up… Under the pressure of the force of time the assembly line breaks.  The point is:  if you manage your time too rigidly, with a strenuous and overpopulated routine and you fail to meet the demands of it, it will ruin you in far worse ways than having no routine at all.

The above are the reasons why I manage my life as a series of nows.  I don’t always do this particularly well, and yes it can clash with the routines set out for me by others (work, activities, family, etc.) but if something goes wrong it is immediately followed by another now.  No build-up, no force of time.  The only mitigating factor is how many nows are available for me to burn on any given thing.  If I don’t have enough time I simply postpone.  Life has too many obligations and stressors I really don’t need the management of my time to cause me anxiety.

So, for those of you who feel as though you desperately need to grasp at a scheduled routine in order to make your life work, I respect it but implore you to consider an alternative.  The one major tip that I will give you is this:  if you have appointments or obligations to be somewhere by a given time, make sure that you are there with loads of time to spare.  I mean show up to everything half an hour early.  Even work.  I show up an hour early for work every day.  But like a kid watching the clock after last recess the moment the clock ticks off I am out of there like a shot.  Straight home to my room to tear off my pants and eat while watching “Homeland”.  That time is mine.  I use it to deflate from the day.  I figure if my sleep is patchy to begin with getting up a half hour earlier (and sleeping maybe a half hour earlier, maybe…) isn’t going to fuss my life up all that much.  So why not be early?  Give yourself alone time in the car in the parking lot with a coffee (tea? yuck…) and a news article (cigarette?!) to relax before whatever you have to do, it might help your demeanor, it may show whomever you are meeting a huge amount of reliability and initiative.

This is the closest thing I have to a routine, a stubborn unwillingness to be merely “on time” for anything.  I must be early.  You know what though?  Like honesty, it pays off big time.  The downside to this is that when I am actually late (on time) for anything I get really upset with myself, which is ultra-rare but has happened a few times.

Just some perspective and advice, take it or leave it.  Not like I am a life guru by any stretch of the imagination.

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Shining Imperfection

We all go about our lives as though we are perfection incarnate.  As though we have nothing wrong with us and nothing to hide.  Meanwhile we have a closet full of skeletons that we would rather nobody see and kindly request that they ignore the little man behind the curtain.  Even when things are tumultuous and our imperfections are glaringly obvious we continue this charade.  We even dislike people who seem too perfect.  I’m going to pause here to note that it is because of this little game that we are aware that anyone who seems too perfect has the most to hide.  We know this.  We know it in our gut because we have been playing for our whole lives that the people who seem effortlessly flawless are seriously troubled.  Extra disturbed.  The pillars of the community who actually have a glint in their smile and turn out to have a cache of child pornography.  Yet, we always say the same thing: “He seemed so normal, so perfect!  He had a wonderful life!  Two point five kids and a doting wife!  I knew something had to be wrong!”

This is why I respect people who are evidently damaged.  People who have given up on the game.  I don’t mean that they have given up on life, they just embrace themselves for what and who they really are.  Like me.  I always face the phrase: you can’t let your disorder define you.  Okay, cool.  If that’s true then you can’t let your gender and race define you.  Not fair?  Why not?  Oh… It places you automatically in a political social sphere?  Fucking strange that.  Sure, I could hide mine, play the perfect game.  Yet, you see I’m not a liar.  So you can pretend to be perfect and act like nothing is wrong but that’s a little bit like ignoring your issues in the hopes that they will sort themselves out.  Hot tip: they won’t.  Usually they pile up.  Best way to deal with something is to tackle it head on.  I am always dealing with bipolar.

It’s amazing how people treat you when you don’t want to play the game.  It makes them uncomfortable.  They are so innured in it from having played it since birth that they are astounded.  Shocked.  I’ve had women hop into my roller-coaster cart for the ride and women fairly fly out.  People become stand-offish.  How dare you not follow the rules!  Don’t you know that you are supposed to play at being perfect?!  You might expose their imperfections!  Which you invariably do.  It can be a lonely road.  When it isn’t though, it can be very rewarding or very dangerous.  When you meet others who don’t play you can become great support for one another.  Or adversely you can become a downward spiral of futility and ever growing morbid fascination.

The irony in all of this is that when you embrace those things about you that are less than admirable, you learn to overcome them.  You compensate and grow.  Making you an actually stronger and better person.  You cannot fix a problem that you have not first identified and diagnosed.  Pretending that you do not have problems is tantamount to not solving them.  Therefore, admitting that you are not perfect is the quickest route to becoming so.

I’m actually rather thankful for my disorder.  It comes with a fair amount of gifts.

Balanced On One Hand

I had an epiphany with respect to my girlfriend: she isn’t crazy.  In fact, she is by far the most sane woman I have ever dated.  The second most sane is still a good friend of mine and her nickname is in fact “Crazy”.  No joke.  I’m forever a Gomez seeking a Morticia, a Joker in search of his Harley.  I’m a wild spark leaping for the stray black powder around the keg.  All of my relationships play out like Sid and Nancy, with or without drugs…

My girlfriend is regular folk.  There is nothing at all wild about her.  Which has pros and cons.  You might recall my complaints about being stale and bored.  Well I’m not.  It only occurred to me just recently that I was feeling that way because I am used to things being more chaotic.  Having a woman that picks at me until something happens, either we argue or we fuck.  Or we argue and fuck.  Then we make up and fuck.  It’s a whole process.  With my girlfriend we are copacetic.  Even keeled.  We fuck without event.

Toward that end, if you remember from this post I am very skilled with my hands.  I was able to give my new girlfriend, at the young age of twenty-two a vaginal orgasm that lasted no less than five minutes.  As it persisted I would whisper: “A little more…” and it would go on for another twenty seconds.  When it was over I said to her: “This is likely the best thing that has happened in your life thus far.”  She agreed.  The reason that this is news and noteworthy is because she was having intermittent mental blockage of her orgasms.  She would get right to the edge, over and over and then stop herself.  Also, generally speaking, younger women (even ones that masturbate) aren’t open to rolling vaginal orgasms.  I’ve found it to be nearly impossible to produce in anyone under the age of twenty-eight even with stellar technique.  I was going to attempt to bind this to a follow-up clitoral orgasm, however it seemed like once I released the rolling vaginal one she almost instantly lost steam.  Good enough though, for a start at any rate.  I actually pity her a little in a way.  You might wonder why, well the answer to that is simple:  She is very young and I am long in the tooth.  She is in her first actual relationship (I will note here that I am not her first sexual partner) I am just adding another nickel to my first dollar.  Should things go south for us (knock on wood) it will be probably a while before she encounters another man who can do this for her.  Men are notoriously horrible in the bedroom.  Largely because they are convinced everything is done with their penis.  I won’t claim to the be the best, though at least I put the work in with some skill.  This is, from what I understand, a rare quality to find in a man.

There are obvious reasons for why I have put the time into the aforementioned.  My bipolarity has found me in enough situations in order to practice it.  One of my favourite symptoms is the hypersexuality.  Women and cigarettes are the only two drugs that I just can’t quit.  If I was told that women were giving me dick cancer I would quit them, but even if I was told I had lung cancer I wouldn’t stop smoking.  So, big tobacco wins in the end.  Too bad “big vagina” isn’t how we refer to the porn industry.  Though, to be fair not all porn has something to do with vag…

So, my girlfriend isn’t crazy.  I feel as though she might be centering me.  She has become like a focal point.  I have two problems with this:  What happens when Jack feels trapped?  What happens when I no longer have her to center me?

 

Poorly defined.

There is an idea of a Patrick Bateman, some kind of abstraction, but there is no real me. Only an entity, something illusory. And though I can hide my cold gaze, and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our life styles are probably comparable, I simply am not there.”  – Patrick Bateman from American Psycho, by Bret Easton Ellis.

 

I have spoken in the past of my poorly grafted frankenpersonality and my social mimicry, now it would seem that it is time to revisit this subject.  Because I truly believe at my core that I am empty, a hollow shell of a human-being with nothing of substance inside to offer.  I have been asked by my therapist, Lilith, to make an exercise of it.  To determine who I am.  When I was a teenager, around fifteen I think I wrote two poems and coined a term for what I believed myself to be.  The term is the title of the first poem as follows:

Never Man:

I am the reflection of a paperback novel,
I am poet type casted as a murderer.
I am an act but not an actor,
I am blessing under cover.
I am a fact but not a factor,
I am a lesson as a lover.
I am a demon on vacation,
I am the product of experiments.
I am your roaming free spirit,
I am the bearer of an evil eye.
I am the season of winter,
I am a psychological sneeze.
I am an antisocial nocturn,
I am a black and white collage.
I am never going to happen,
I am Theodor Geisel’s biggest fan.

You know, I was probably more clever and switched on then than I am now.  That kid has me figured out.  He was utterly correct and still is.  The second poem is a continuation in the negative, titled the same, part two!  As follows:

Never Man II:

I am not an artificially intelligent ego,
I am not a self inflicted sacrifice.
I am not among the socially profound,
I am not a hedonistic daydream.
I am not the product of our society,
I am not the echo of an afterthought.
I am not without a sense of tragedy,
I am not going to wait for life to happen.
I am not a reality addict,
I am not interested in what others believe.
I am not going to allow myself to delegate,
I am not the conductor of routine ritual.
I am not a dissipating disappointment,
I am not your enemy.

Oddly enough I think I’m working against the grain on the second one.  I mean, yeah I may not be those things but I am slowly drifting toward them.  It looks like I need to shape up.

The Neverman is poorly defined and has been since.  Nothing has changed.  Dysphorian and Jack are one and the same and both are a middle shade of grey.  Sure, my behaviours may land in the extreme but are they all that defines me?  Almost.  I have few hobbies.  Few friends.  Few relatives.  No pets.  No mate.  No accomplishments, unless you count surviving depression but to what end?
There are always soft skills.  I can undo a bra through a shirt with one hand.  While mixing a martini with the other.  Just kidding.  About the martini, the first part was true.  I’m fashionable.  I’m fashion conscious, tapped in to changing trends and I advise others when the situation arises (sometimes when it isn’t even requested).  I am a very fine cook when I have the required equipment at hand, owing to an endeavour that I never saw through to the end.  I refer of course to my culinary experiences.  I haven’t finished any schooling, I hold no tradesman papers and I have no certificates.  I am not an angler nor a hunter.  I am a novice archer.  A promising novice archer at that.  So am I defined by an antiquated skill with an obsolete weapon/tool?  I am not Dysphorian the archer.

I hold it true, whate’er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
‘Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.

Canto XXVII of In Memoriam by Lord Alfred Tennyson,

I have abundantly loved.  If such love is lofty and I have ascended, my descent was equally thus and tragic all the more.  My heart is an icebreaker.  Carving through tundra ice shelves until run adrift on craggy sharp rocks and dashed.  This is where my lust takes me.  I have a passion for women that cannot be sated.  I pursue them with the intention of no more than a sexual encounter.  Instant carnal gratification.  Alas, my foolish heart becomes mired in the ice, carving away at the austere exterior of a woman I only just met.  A woman fascinated with Jack’s boisterous and charismatic nature.  They are quite taken with me right away.  I will be honest here, I usually go through the motions because I don’t have the heart to be mean, I lack a killer instinct as I’ve mentioned in the past.  I cannot simply walk away on them and while I am physically attracted to them there is always the chance that we could carry on sleeping together…  Then it happens, I begin to fall in love, my own lust and passion becomes legitimate emotions, feelings of attachment.  As this is occurring, little by little she begins to lose interest in me.  This is why my longest relationship has lasted 2 years.  The rest of the time the plan mostly works, I meet a woman who is in it for the ultra short-term and she calls it quits before either of us becomes invested.  Win-win.  There are pros and cons to this.  Pros:  I understand female sexual anatomy better than about 99.99997% of the standard male population, I’m very pro-women out of an organic relationship with femininity and I usually put the seat down when I’m finished.  Cons: I will grow old alone.  Are we defined by our relationship with a spouse?  I’m not even sure that monogamy is natural to humans.  So no, we are definitely not defined by our partner, those come and go, die of cancer, cheat on you and leave, or just betray you because they don’t like the fact that you are depressed.  If you rely on other people to define who you are, I think you need to do some soul searching.

“We are what we repeatedly do.  Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit.”  – Aristotle

I’ve held many jobs.  This and nothing more.  I’ve never had a career nor a vocation.  I’ve never been truly passionate about anything other than the feminine form and the destruction of dislogic.  I cannot abide the spread of misinformation and falsehoods which grows alarmingly contrary to what you would believe given our increasing connectivity.  You would imagine that with breakthroughs in science and technology we would have become more enlightened and have been able to disseminate this information more effectively to the masses.  One would like to think that the population of Earth would be better informed and able to detect myths and fallacies.  However things are going the opposite direction.  The religions of the world are doing their best to confuse and obscure the truth from the masses.  They are actively attempting to sabotage and even shut down educational and scientific research programs in favour of religious teaching.  There are conspiracy based “concerned parents” clucking like Chicken Little over the sky falling about every little thing from drinking water, vaccines, what our food contains to GMO’s.  None of which is remotely a concern to anyone.  At all.  In fact, the opposite is true in every case.  They are rallying for a worse planet.  People who are free of disease, with a virtual limitless supply of clean drinking water, plenty of food and places to live. These people are actively attempting to reverse all of these by combating science and replacing it with prayer because that’s working so well everywhere in the world that this is the case.  So I am in the habit of trouncing this whenever and wherever it crops up.  I am also in the habit of finding myself on/in/under any or all attractive women I can find who are willing to do so with me.  I don’t know that this makes me excellent by definition but my fourteen year old self is giving me a high five.  Good enough.  Again, not sure if these are viable ways in which one gauges or qualifies themselves.  They are traits, but defining?  Distinctive, definitely.

Self improvement is masturbation.  Now self destruction is the answer.”  – Tyler Durden

from Fight Club, by Chuck Palahniuk.

I put effort into appearance.  For the sake of women.  For the perception of responsibility and competency.  The clothes often do make the man.  I go out of my way to present myself well.  I exercise as a matter of course for my current occupation.  I am in good shape.  I am no body builder but I am fit.  I am naturally attractive and I take steps to preserve and highlight my features in order to accentuate my natural allure.  I am man pretty.  So much so that as I have mentioned in the past teenaged girls have remarked on my appearance.  I don’t know why but I consider this a big deal, if young women still find you attractive then you must still have something.  This being said however, and for as much as I love being appealing, I think that improving yourself is mostly a self-indulgent exercise.  Not saying that you shouldn’t do it.  As I wouldn’t tell you not to masturbate.  However, this is all that it is and nothing more.  Now, getting to the heart and fun of things is when you tear it all down.  The act of ruin is what I excel at and infinitely more exciting.  There is something that becomes giddy and effervescent inside at the thought of binge drinking (possibly doing drugs, I won’t lie) and sleeping with random women.  Like the thrill of throwing yourself out of a perfectly good plane.  Or perhaps more extreme such as Russian roulette.  In any case the thought of going so wild I might never come back sometimes is all that gets me through.  Life is so dreary, it requires chaos from time to time, otherwise what really is the point?  I am not entirely certain how this defines me though I am certain that it does in a fairly big way.

 

I who am dead a thousand years,
And wrote this sweet archaic song,
Send you my words for messengers
The way I shall not pass along.

I care not if you bridge the seas,
Or ride secure the cruel sky,
Or build consummate palaces
Of metal or of masonry.

But have you wine and music still,
And statues and a bright-eyed love,
And foolish thoughts of good and ill,
And prayers to them who sit above?

How shall we conquer? Like a wind
That falls at eve our fancies blow,
And old Maeonides the blind
Said it three thousand years ago.

O friend unseen, unborn, unknown,
Student of our sweet English tongue,
Read out my words at night, alone:
I was a poet, I was young.

Since I can never see your face,
And never shake you by the hand,
I send my soul through time and space
To greet you. You will understand.

To A Poet A Thousand Years Hence, by James Elroy Flecker.

It saddens me that poetry is a dead artform.  I blame slam poetry.  I blame New York.  I blame the same people who are watering down our education system.  Don’t get me wrong I love a good rapper, KRS-1, Mos Def and Eminem are all extremely talented poets.  There are also many others who are very good except to be fair a resounding majority of rap is murdering english and making people at large moronic.  So is pop-country.  Not country music, pop-country, there is a huge difference.  Merle Haggard is alright, Johnny Cash knows what’s good.  This modern bleating that is essentially pop music with a steel guitar and a twangy voice can fuck right off.  Also to be fair to everyone else my poetry wasn’t the finest.  I was a blend of Pablo Picasso  and Salvador Dali in English free verse.  I would sometimes blend words for evocative imagery and flow rather than logic or even cohesive ideas.  I left meaning to the reader sometimes at other times I lead the reader and if they didn’t follow I didn’t care.  Once a poem is written my concern with it’s perception and interpretation is over.  So when I say that I was Picasso/Dali I am not boasting, I mean that I adapted these philosophies and techniques, their style and attitude and applied it to words in English and did so quite organically.  Poetry used to be a very large part of who I was.  For a time I was inspired to write and I am the very picture of the tortured, struggling writer.  It isn’t that I don’t have the ideas, more really that I hate them and by extension myself for them.  I don’t doubt that they are better than a majority of what is out there but I hate myself before I even write them down.  I do not take even constructive criticism well.  When I am actually proud of my writing if someone doesn’t like it I pretty much think that they should die instantly for being the stupidest person ever.  I’m actually not kidding.  Not even a little.  I wouldn’t dare to believe that I am a poet.  Or that it is even a badge that I wear.  I’m not published, it is hardly a defining feature.

So who then, am I?

Lonely Morning:

Like shadows christened in your kiss, a gesture only you could know, like sighs that follow laughter.

A winking eye captured in darkness, like squinting at intruding light which rapes the wholesome breath of day. Clouds are forming in your brow, the cigarettes that follow sex; in this we share a single truth.

Lie to me; I prefer your hasty words. I’d rather that I didn’t know what wrinkles lines into your lips. Drying saliva marks your neck with glossy memories of me, which last much longer than the moisture.

Christened shadows awoke your kiss to sighs I breathe into your flesh. Is this the truth we share? Only to hide it from ourselves with lies? You are the sighs that follow my laughter, the sex I smoke away.

Dysphorian, original. Age 16.

My pale, languid sixteen year old body made a canvas of several girls and spat forth this.  Even then a lover and thinker.  Perhaps I was pretentious or a little bit too ambitious.  Maybe I was ahead of my years in so far as my experiences and reflections.  Who can know?  All that we can know is that it is obvious that I was gifted, troubled, alone and hypomanic. I keep hearing from people that I can’t let my disorder define me. This is horribly unhelpful advice. In many ways it’s at the very core of who and what I am. My compulsions, reactions and impulses fueled by it. And I own it. I’m not ashamed of who I am anymore than a leopard is ashamed of its predatory nature. I am what I was genetically predisposed to become. I am raw potential and capability. I am an alpha. An apex predator. So when I hear people complaining to me about my nature, about my behavior. When I hear people telling me that I need to fit in, I feel like a wolf being asked to fit in with sheep. I was born resplendent. So why relegate myself to mediocrity?

So who am I? How am I defined? By what significant feature am I marked? My journey. Upon reflection, what might be considered an identity crisis was only a perspective readjustment. You see, the definition of self isn’t a static picture. No person is ever complete as you are perpetually working toward a more complete you whilst discarding aspects of yourself no longer useful to you. Identity is a process. I am defined by my struggle, so in a way I actually am my disorder. Jack is as much me as Dysphorian. This is not to say that I’m good where I am or that I’m done. Far from it, I have lengths to go and many more trials yet to face. I am defined by the obstacles that I face and how I react to my challenges.

In short dear reader, I am a leopard. The spots won’t change that’s true and I will still be a stealthy and cunning predator. Though I may have to adapt to a new environment to learn to overcome. Accept that I might no longer be the apex predator in these parts and maybe even learn to work in a group in order to survive.

 

 

 

 

 

Lycanthropia Vernal

Spring isn’t here yet. I know this because I’m not a werewolf. I don’t mean this literally but I don’t exactly mean this figuratively either. I mean that I haven’t broken free from the oppressive weight that winter binds me with. The seasonal affective disorder that makes me a prisoner of my own thoughts and feelings, robbing me of my faculties and willpower. Stealing my supernatural powers. Do I really believe that I have super powers? You might ask. Well, it had been observed since my youth by many a teacher, counselor and professional of various description that I was in several ways gifted. Though because of this I would tune out, go into my own mind and lose focus on that which was asked of me. I was fortunate to avoid an ADD diagnosis. I never lacked the capability for attention, I simply elected not to award it to things I deemed trivial. Adults were never considered authoritative on the subject of what was important in my mind.

My gifted mind educated itself in a rather round about, trial and error process. I’ve learned alarmingly little from schools. I would say that I actually absorbed about the first four grades worth of education. Then grade seven science, grades ten and eleven advanced English, also grade ten science and math. After these I felt as though I was finished with school. Until I decided to go to college for art.

Not long before college I began noticing certain things about women at certain times. Specifically in the spring and summer I had begun to notice quite keenly a smell. It was subtle and raw. A musky, heady olfactory flourish. I likened it to the combination of hunger and sexual desire. Later because of a girlfriend and her roommate I determined that it was a woman’s cycle I was smelling. After I’d determined this it made certain situations awkward. I only seemed to have the capability in spring and summer. For a time I thought because of all the extra clothes, however even indoors it wasn’t functional. With many years of smoking it has been dampened dramatically yet in the spring I still experience it slightly.

When puberty finally reached the top few gears and Jack arrived a plethora of unusual talents came with him. I could memorize songs almost instantly, take untold amounts of drugs, charm girls with relative ease and function on little or no sleep. I wrote poetry. Perhaps I’m biased but I found it to be evocative and powerful. I did this until I was fairly convinced that poetry was a dead art form. However, in the daytime my energy was shot. I thrived between noon to six in the morning, roughly. In the city I became a rooftop dweller, I knew how to gain access to the tops of all the downtown buildings. I never engaged in what you’d call free running though I was quite agile.

In my nocturnal adventures to keep myself entertained and make money I became a jack of all trades criminal. I’m not particularly proud of this now and it was rather foolish and childish. Amongst my proletariat group of friends theft was constant. We live in an age where if something isn’t locked or bolted down even the honest man is likely to rob you. We were the enforcers of this rule.  If you consumed drugs that meant you sold drugs. Everyone was a connection.

All of these things changed for me rather rapidly when I went honest. I’ve always been a hard worker. I have always had access to labour jobs due to my honest, blue collar father. Shortly after starting one such job I was visiting friends, doing drugs when a guy who was there threatened me with a knife. At this point in time I was all raw wiry muscle so I told him as a clear fact that I would take the knife from him if he tried and then I would use it on him.  He realized I wasn’t kidding and relented, putting the knife away. My friend Calvin and I went to the club for about two hours then returned. When I got back with him he went to his room and returned a minute later and sent me home in a cab. I was perplexed. By the next weekend it came out that while we were out at the club that same guy and his friend in that same apartment as guests of Calvin’s roommates had beat to death our friend Stanley with a baseball bat.

After this I began to shut down. Not because of grief nor the close call. Not because of the shock at the realization of mortality. No I had always been quite comfortable with death. This was because I had realized that it didn’t matter. It was him and that hadn’t bothered me. It could have just as easily been me and that also wouldn’t have mattered.  I felt a little bit guilty that I didn’t care.  On the surface I cared, I understood that people were shocked and grieving though it didn’t bother me personally.  This triggered a serious downswing for me and I became slightly more depressed than usual.  It held long enough for me to lose my job due to inaction.  I simply stopped going.  I tried sleeping around in the vain attempt to snap myself out of it to no avail.   That’s when I received a letter from Trixie.  She was living in the big city and having a great time and wanted to know what was so important that I couldn’t come and visit?  A visit turned into a roughly six and a half year excursion that included attending one of the nations premiere art schools.  For one year.

The big city was a cornucopia of debauchery and delights for Jack.  Meanwhile, old Dysphorian had to pick up the tab and tow the line.  I had very excellent times and I suffered some of my very worst bouts of depression here.  You have to understand that I didn’t even know that I was depressed, I thought all people felt the same as me.  I truly believed that others were simply better at coping or managing their downs and that I was just not getting it.  I thought that Jack was my true personality when I wasn’t feeling glum.  That when I did the random, over-the-top, crazy, exciting things that Jack did, I was finally expressing myself and letting my hair down.

What it comes down to is the truth lies somewhere in between.  That a more balanced me, a medicated me isn’t relying on a manic push to deal with long periods of crushing depression.  That with effort and medication I can become a regular, boring mortal just like everyone else.  Except I’m keeping my spring werewolf for life.  You won’t take that from me.  I’ll also never fear death, we’ve been in love for far too long and I know all of her erogenous zones and weak points.

Sanguine release.

What to say?  Much has changed.  First, I wasn’t alone on Christmas.  My cousin had offered me a spot with his family and I reached out to him and joined them there.  This is after my (now former) girlfriend and I swapped gifts.  We stayed together for a month or so.  I guess describing the ultimate downfall of that relationship would be a good place to start.

Zoe never really let me in like I said.  She would ask me to do things around the house like paint her bedroom.  Now this is a fairly invested labour.  Slightly beyond a simple “chore”.  Yet when I spoke of the future, living together, paying for things like renovations, making decisions or talk of being an authoritarian for her children she would become visibly uncomfortable and say flat-out things like: “No, you have your life and you live at your place.  This is my house and my children don’t need any more parents.”  Which wasn’t the point… At all.  There were times when the young boy would test me.  Attempt to manipulate me, as he frequently manipulated his mother.  All children do this, it is their first attempt to understand the breadth of their own power.  The moment she was in the shower he wouldn’t ask for something, he would demand it.  Usually I would know that item, usually a treat, was not permitted at the time so I would deny it flatly.  To which his manipulative response would be to cry.  Because sure enough when his mother returned to find him crying he knew with certainty he would get a treat and I would be an asshole.  He would be fawned over for a half an hour.  This was a regular routine.  Zoe to this day is convinced that I am a child abusing psycho.  The only reason that I persisted was simply to establish a pecking order, which she was all too ready to subjugate as soon as possible.  The moment I saw this happen the first time I called her on it and she all but told me I was a cunt.  This should have been my queue to leave.

A heads up to any man who dates a woman who is this attached to her children.  Leave.  Leave right the fuck now.  She is not okay in the head.  She needs more professional help than me and I have a therapist, had a medications specialist and have a doctor I have to meet with regularly over my headspace.   Later in the relationship I started pointing out when he was manipulating her.  I became the cook as a former chef in training and made meals.  He was an extremely finicky eater, even for a child of 4 he was insanely, intensely picky.  He would eat something one week and love it.  LOVE IT!!! Then 5 days later he would sit and pretend to gag on it for 5 straight minutes.  I will give him this, he was a very clever child.  He would be excused from eating.  An activity that required him to use his own utensils and eat several different things, sometimes known sometimes unknown.  Without fail, every night half an hour after being excused: “Mom, can I have a yogurt?!”

Sure enough, she would spoon feed him yogurt!!! I pointed out how she only reinforced his shitty behavior by catering to him and she would lose her mind.  Insisting that she was a good mother.  I wasn’t criticizing, though I understand why she thought that.  I wasn’t attacking her nor judging her.  I was only trying to be objective.  If she allows this behaviour now it will carry throughout his life into adulthood and he will treat all women, maybe all people this way.  He will be entitled and pushy.  Maybe the kind of guy who thinks no means yes, if you see where I’m going with that…

So these are the things that created tension between us.  Her mother gets into my car for a ride home and has a break down.  Cries about how she treats her daughter and bullies her.  Which bothers me as well… Her daughter is a nice girl.  Smart and interested in cool stuff.  The kind of teenager I would like to have as a daughter if I had kids.  A little lazy, okay a lot lazy but I can deal with that.  I bring this break down to her and instead of asking me about it or talking it over with me and trying to understand it, she immediately flares up and yells at me calling me a liar.  Like I would make it up trying to cause a fight between her and her mother?  So she calls her mother to confirm it who denies the whole thing, seriously!!!  It takes me like a week or so to convince her that her mother did in fact say the things that she did and by then it is too late, it does’t matter because the crazy bitch (I just want to interject that as a woman lover I never use the word bitch, it’s for special cases like this one and as a sufferer of a mental disorder I also don’t tend to call people crazy except in special cases, like this one) has completely lost whatever love she had for me.  Which is fine.
Because I buy flowers every week without fail.  I rub her feet every night.  I make near gourmet meals in a kitchen that came out of the fucking 50’s, no easy fucking task.  Every night when she goes to put her kid to bed I clean up all his toys.  I do these things without being asked.  I give her 3 to 5 orgasms a night, some of which last as long as 10 minutes.  I love her as deeply as I’ve ever loved a woman and I can’t even get her to look me in the eyes because I know that she doesn’t love me in the slightest.  I’m too good for her and I know it and I’m at my wits end because I know I’m better than this.  I know I deserve better than this.  I know that by being in a relationship with her I passed up on a chance with a much better woman and I deeply regret every time she cuts my hair.  I know that I only bother to try to stay with her because there are literally no other options in this area in the hopes that she will open her stupid fucking eyes and see how too fucking good for her I am.  I hate myself because I am too weak to be alone and I am doing myself more damage by staying with this sack of garbage.  She is a prostitute I am paying for with self-worth and the price is way too steep.

She doesn’t leave me so much as exile me after a fight.  Eventually the exile becomes permanent.  She’s classy enough to wait until that weekend to hook-up with another guy.  A muslim.  For frame of reference this woman wears Guess jean shorts that almost show off labia.  That do in fact show off cheek.  She tells me that she has changed her wardrobe to show him more respect.  I told her once how I found it disrespectful how she would rather wear skimpy clothes and go dancing with a group of female friends than hang out with me.  That she thought it was okay or acceptable.  Not that I cared, I actually don’t mind and I was only half serious, I just wanted to know how she would react.  She got super angry, almost broke up with me.  Now she is with a muslim and changing her wardrobe and entire philosophy of existence so she can be a kept piece of cattle as a second class citizen.  A slave in a repressive culture.  If she thought that I was in any small way restrictive, she is going to have a serious wake-up call when things get serious between them.

I have since started dating another woman but I’m trying not to be too hopeful about her.  She seems really perfect.  Too perfect actually.  She even holds a bachelor of Psychology, like really?  She is obviously intelligent, career oriented, attractive and fun.  I’m just unsure about her.  We’ve had a few communication errors so I’m trying to take it super slow and not get too invested.  I just never really understand when you text someone and they don’t text back.  I don’t get that.  It isn’t a challenge.  Even: ‘Hey, I’ll be busy for a while but I got you and I’ll text you when I can.’ It takes seconds.  So I just assume that if you don’t that you don’t want to talk at all.  Which I know is a shitty way to think.  I’m also one of those people who compulsively has to answer a text right the heck away.  I can’t sit on it.  So I gauge these things differently I guess.

I’ve taken up archery.  I’m quite skilled at it.  I intend to pick up some better arrows soon that should slightly improve my shots.  The flights on mine aren’t very good and the shafts are a tad short for my draw.  It is excellent therapy.  The focus, the meditation.  So relaxing and cathartic.  I would highly recommend it to anyone who has tension or hypomania.  It really pulls you in.

That’s it for now, I’m up way too late.  I hope to update more soon.

Crossroads/Ascension

From the title something about taking the high road comes to mind.  Changes are constant in life, especially so for the bipolar.  Abundantly so for those on the mend.  A thousandfold for him that has a budding family, a tolerant, accepting woman and is changing careers.  That’s right, my whole world is changing shape.  I will no longer be Pangaea.  My entire landscape is moving and heaving, tectonic plates are rising and grinding, bursting forth.  It is a wild time to be me.  I have no idea what it is that I intend to become, but I know that it will be something that utilizes my mind considerably more than my current occupation.  Also, hopefully when all is said and done I can even tell you, Dear reader, what that and my current occupation are.  No promises though.

Strife is coming to a close with with the three year old boy.  I am normally very good with children and for reasons that I cannot explain I had been having trouble with my girlfriends son.  I think perhaps because her whole world is wrapped around this difficult little human larvae.  He is generally speaking a good child, though when his veneer cracks and his (only human, all too familiar) manipulative nature shows I just could not abide it.  I cannot stand having his whimsy become the centre of my universe.  This woman means so much to me.  So much that her slightest mood is my weather system, further up the chain from that is the boy and he has this effect on her…  No good.  If, as a self-interested churl, he should take advantage of this situation as children are often wont to do when they realize they have their mothers at their whimsy, it causes utter disaster in my life.  So, when I see this and attempt to address it with her I further underscore myself as the outsider and asshole.  Because OBVIOUSLY a toddler cannot POSSIBLY be self-centred and clever enough to take advantage of it.  OBVIOUSLY her child is special and precious and unique and angelic and perfect and good and magnificent and better than and nothing at all like all the others that ever came before it.  OBVIOUSLY I am just a ROTTEN CHILD HATING SHITSACK.

So, you see, I have had some adjusting to do.  Toddlers are perfect people innately, without training and over the course of thirty or so years they do nothing but pick up bad habits, learn superstitions, lies and become bitter, conniving, spiteful and hateful.  We clearly don’t make objective observations based on what we see with our over one hundred and forty I.Q. and interest in psychosocial development.  So I have had to learn to adjust my entire broken, shitty life to accommodate them and their healthy ways.

I know it sounds bitter, really though it isn’t.  I know that it is wrong for me to passively lay down and just let them roll all over me.  However, if I take a stand and scream and yell and tell them that they need to shut the fuck up and let me in and listen to me.  Let me fucking show them how accept me.  Nobody is going to accept me… So I just have to take the acceptance that I get, the love that I get.  If it is in their unhealthy balancing act, so long as I actually want to be a part of it… I have to do it on their terms.  I love this woman very, very much.  She loves her child very, very much (OBVIOUSLY).  So I have to enter that on their terms.  I can’t disrupt the chi.

I am learning the various outcomes that constitute positive and happy resolutions.  Crossroads often have more than two divergent paths, some have many, many options.  Some of those options lead onward and upward.  I elect to take that road.