Out of the Wilderness.

Hello again.  I’ve been preoccupied and distracted.  Busy.  I wish I could tell you that my life was improving.  Well, on paper it is… I’m going back to college and I’m doing okay.  Alas, on the psychosocial front I am dissolving.  It has been a foray into the wilderness of humanity.  Dating unsuccessfully, meeting loads of new people and not making any friends.  I have been chemically prevented from anything like serious disdain or regret but lately… I’ve been more circumspect.  As I think about my experiences I am reminded of “As Good As It Gets” with Jack Nicholson.  Wherein his character, who has psychosocial issues comes to the realization that maybe “this is as good as it gets”.  The more I think about that, the less hopeful I become.

I feel lonely so I reach out.  It starts out fine.  Then a joke is told, usually followed by some confusion or misunderstanding and it all goes south rather quickly.  What was supposed to be funny becomes a serious discussion and then degenerates into an argument.  You can’t say anything nice about yourself without people getting extremely precious about it.  Whether it is true and you are simply stating a virtue or it is a joke and you don’t actually mean it at all.  It just turns into a tragedy and every bit of hope that you had for having a nice easy happy social life goes completely to shit.

I like people less and less.  I like myself less and less.  I become introspective about the entire thing and the suicidal ideation that hasn’t been a part of my life for so long starts creeping back in.  COmpletely welcomed like an old friend.  Why bother?  You try to be nice, it starts a fight, you try to be defensive and keep people at arm’s length and it becomes an argument.  Dating is a mixed bag of solipsistic and shallow women and meaningless encounters that range from indifference to casual sex.  Nothing lasting or progressive.  I’m an odd virus in a petri dish.  Nothing else can exist in this space without corruption by or with me.  I either devour it, or it is so hallow that I simply spread right through it, obliterate it completely.

So, without love… Without support or close ties, friendships or lovers, what exactly is the point?  If this is as good as it gets, why carry on?  I cannot be cured, I cannot live a healthy balanced and normal productive life, so why live?  I’m not feeling sorry for myself.  I genuinely want to know.  How can I find meaning in this wilderness.  What is my purpose?  To continually attempt to have a better life that I am utterly incapable of maintaining, only to fail repeatedly and simply be frustrated…?

I don’t want that.  Every single street has a one way sign…

Parenting.

This is another in my series of “I had nowhere else to put this”.

Cookies for dinner. AGAIN! I fucking love being an adult. To think that there was a time that I couldn’t eat what I wanted…. Like, my parents told me I couldn’t have cookies and candy for dinner. Man, it’s probably a good thing that I’m not a father because I would let my kids eat whatever they wanted for every meal. Then I would end up at the hospital with some judgy doctor asking me questions while some fucking Helicopter parents who are there because they want to discuss the “merits of not getting their child vaccinated” with their physician stare at me like I’m some abomination.

So when the doctor is asking me why I let my kids eat whatever they want I point to Mr. and Mrs. Helicopter and I say: “Hey, you see those two nervous wreck assholes over there that are so anxious about fucking up their kid that they are making the next Jeffrey fucking Dahmer? I don’t want my kids to be like that pencil-necked little puke. That kid is so pathetic that germs are going to bully him. My kids are going to be his boss. That kid is going to be so straight and narrow with his nose to the computer screen, he will work 12 hours a day out of a fear of not paying his bill two weeks in advance. My son is going to stand around the water cooler telling the middle management how he’s nailing some poor bastards wife on afternoons and weekends while her husband isn’t home and when that kid over there looks around to hear more of the story my son is telling, my son is going to scream at him to get back to work. Which that kid over there is going to do. Then, when he does my son is going to tell those other management pricks ‘That’s the guy’ and laugh hysterically as he outlines how he intends to increase his hours and give him the minimum raise this year. Then he’ll mention how he steals his sandwich out of the break room fridge everyday but doesn’t even eat it, just throws it in the garbage.”

The doctor will look confused and the Helicopter family will look appalled. “Oh, I forgot to explain why. Well you see, my kids will get sick and get their stomachs pumped and that will be the worst thing that has ever happened to them.  Then I’ll explain to them it was because they made bad choices. They ate candy and cookies instead of healthy balanced meals. Then I’ll explain that there are always consequences to bad choices. Also, when you make bad choices you have to live with the consequences, take your lumps but then rise up from them, not dwell on them and move forward. Move past it and learn from it. Without hesitation and without fear.”

“So old Pencil-neck No-needles O’Helicopter over there will get polio and his legs will shrivel up as he sits in front of a computer and my kids will stomp on everything in front of them like dinosaurs.  They will have no fear, they will take risks and yes they will make mistakes, but they will come through smelling like a rose with confidence.”

Then the doctor will probably either call or consider calling child services and the Helicopters will ask about boosters for Pencil-neck.

Lovesick.

I am sick from never being able to see the woman I love.  As it is I rarely interact with her and less still do I get to hear her voice.  Simply hearing her voice would be utter bliss.  I have been a wreck because of it.  She is all that is ever on my mind.  I think to the future when this will all be over and my biggest issue will be balancing our lives together.  To have such a sweet luxurious problem… Who could ask for more?  I could be destitute and if I were burdened with such a life as this I would be happy.

This is how I am convinced that she is my soulmate.  The certainty in my mind that even if I were broken in all other ways that so long as she were there I would be fine.  I am no stranger to adversity, so this conviction I hold seems well founded.  They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder, yet they neglect to inform you of the pain.  The throbbing yearning that burns into the core of you until it eclipses all other sensation.  I’m sure that I have felt something akin to this before at some point in my life, but never with anything near this intensity.  Never have I known a love so pure, so real.

My empty hours have been full of thoughts of her and subsequently the pain of her absence.  Worse still, the solitude of having to bear it alone.  As our relationship is as of yet a secret I have nobody in whom I can confide.  Nor do I really have her as she has been otherwise preoccupied.  More to that point I find this a little bit unusual for her.  Where once I was showered in pictures and messages I now get a message once every four or five hours.  Maybe a few in a burst, but then that will be it.  It’s odd.  It has changed and it worries me a little.  She is still loving so it doesn’t worry me entirely, though it is noticeably different so I am concerned.  If it continues to change or even stay on like this I will be upset.

Something does indeed have to change though… It has been too long.  I haven’t seen her in what?   Three weeks, maybe a month?  I fear a little, out of sight, out of mind is taking place… I want to believe that I matter to her as much as she matters to me and if I do then nothing is to be concerned about, clearly.  Though, anything this important you have to fret over.  How can you not?  It matters too much.  I would like to think that I would know without question if I matter to her.  I like to think that I do, though our communication habits lately throw doubts at this that I didn’t think I would ever see… I think I’m just being sensitive.  I’m not usually like this.  What is wrong with me?

This has to be love.  I’ve gone insane.

Honesty…

I was always a very honest person growing up and to this day have traits that are deeply biased in favour of being totally and completely open.  I am quite literally an open book.  When I make mistakes I often admit to them, often to my own detriment.  I don’t know so much that it is out of guilt, I’m not so sure that I understand guilt completely.  But even when I was taken advantage of in a very drunken state (read raped) I eventually had to own up to my then girlfriend because I felt it was right.  It took me some time and I hadn’t realized that technically I had given no consent nor would I had I been sober.  It destroyed that relationship.  At least I was honest, I guess it’s a small victory in some strange way.  A little brass medal that I got to pin on myself as a consolation.

As I have aged the veneer is peeling and flaking.  I am becoming less honest.  I haven’t even been fully honest in this blog which is anonymous.  Mostly on the off chance that someone connects me to my various sins and crimes.  I am not what you would call a decent man.  I represent a litany of vices in an unabashed display of hedonism and excess, despite being on the lower rung of society.  Afforded mostly by my charm, wit  and good looks, coupled with having nothing to be responsible for and therefore the maximum amount of disposable income.  I am Dorian Gray only without the wealth and no real need of it.  So my blog has come full circle.

Recently it has dawned on me that my condition might be a tad more complicated than I had realized.  I may well also have dipped into the category of antisocial personality disorder.  In addition to never having been affected by the death of humans and being openly disdainful of efforts to save people in third world countries I have a myriad of other similarities to the illness.  Most can be explained by bipolar as they are the same symptoms, however I may be suffering from a crossover or falling somewhere between them.
Risk factors for ASPD that I share:

  • Family history of antisocial personality disorder or other personality disorders or mental illness
  • Being subjected to verbal, physical or sexual abuse during childhood
  • Unstable or chaotic family life during childhood
  • Loss of parents through traumatic divorce during childhood
  • History of substance abuse in parents or other family members

Which happens to be all but one.  The symptoms that I exhibit are as follows:

  • Disregard for right and wrong  (I live my life as I see fit, I know that drugs and prostitution are illegal but that doesn’t stop me from occasionally enjoying them, I have a moral ambiguity)
  • Using charm or wit to manipulate others for personal gain or for sheer personal pleasure (I have been unfaithful in relationships and not been honest about it, I have mislead people)
  • Intense egocentrism, sense of superiority and exhibitionism (Um, duh!)
  • Recurring difficulties with the law (I don’t suffer from this but I have dealt with the law more than the average honest citizen I think)
  • Hostility, significant irritability, agitation, impulsiveness, aggression or violence (agitation, irritation and impulsiveness overlap with bipolar)
  • Lack of empathy for others and lack of remorse about harming others (any harm I may have ever done I can justify, I never feel guilty)
  • Unnecessary risk-taking or dangerous behaviors (overlap with bipolar)
  • Poor or abusive relationships (not abusive but poor indeed)
  • Failure to learn from the negative consequences of behavior (I will count this one, not because I don’t learn but that I don’t learn what people expect me to)

I never established a real emotional link with my mother which persists to this day.  My dealings with her are merely out of a sense of duty and obligation.  My stepmother was abusive and my father, despite having an initially positive relationship was never present.  He was at work, winding down or sleeping.  I do not blame him for this in any way.  I actually really do have a fondness for him, we are rather similar.

I think I was brushing up against this issue in this post.  I am slowly becoming disconnected from humanity and where once I had empathy for the individual I now have instead a top-down apathetic view of humans as a whole species.  I wish to preserve them which so often goes against what they consider “right”.  I suppose you would call this “Playing God” within my own mind.  Example:  People see the starving and dejected people of Africa and they are motivated to help so they send aid.  Or they volunteer to go assist themselves.  In my mind I see an entire continent of people that should be allowed to die down to a sustainable number.  Why should first world peoples invest in the lives of third world peoples who may get food and water?  Sure, but they will be without education and jobs.  Then you have to give them that too.  You are creating a cycle of dependency.  They only learn that strange foreign people will come and rescue them.  Except we aren’t really, because we stole their resources to begin with, we keep them impoverished and dejected by sneaking everything out of their continent without their notice nor consent.  We sell their gold/oil/trees for our profit and send back pennies for wells.  So why bother?  Let them die.  Eventually maybe there will only be as many people as they can actually feed.  Even if you manage to feed, clothe, house and educate these people, then what?  Religions will get them.  Or superstitions.  They still burn gays and witches.  No joke.  So why do you  think that you are doing any “good”?  The one that maybe gets all these benefits and survives it all more than likely will never be useful to the rest of civilized society in any way at all.  Oh sure, s/he will come to the western world and maybe get funded on a full ride for college.  But all they will do with it is start another charity in order to “help” their former countrymen.  Or, they will compete in a job market that already had enough first world people to begin with.

Let people die, sometimes it is the right thing to do.  Death is natural and there is no shortage of people on the planet.  In fact we are experiencing the opposite.  We have too many and our resources are being mishandled.  People starve and die in the west too.  As a species we are doing terrible and I personally loathe us.  Especially the misguided assholes who think they are actually doing “good works”.  You want to do good works?  Become a horse doctor for people.  No, actually it would be too humane to put them out of their misery.  Let them suffer to death and save the ammunition.  Why spend money when time will do the trick?  Africa is a living eugenics experiment and black people are losing.  I pity them, sort of…
If you don’t care enough about the collective survival of your entire people to band together and save yourselves, why should anyone else?  Why should other successful peoples be forced to pick up the tab for a failed people?  Like aboriginals.  And you’ll say: “But whites did that to both of them.”  Only because we were more advanced first.  Had their failed peoples had guns, ships and the wherewithal to employ biological warfare, white people would be on the losing side.  I see no reason to be compelled to help, to change anything nor to feel guilty about it.

Asians and caucasians are successful, hispanics are doing quite well for themselves.  Middle-eastern and black people are doomed to failure so their last ditch effort is to interbreed.  Which I fully support.  They have traits that are desirable.  You’ll probably say: “But when black people breed with other races the baby comes out black.”  Sure, the first time.  But then breed that one with another white or asian, and so on for generations and all you have left is nappi hair.  Look at Sicilians.

I think the solution is interracial breeding and a live and let die philosophy.  If everyone bred with someone who was not recognizable as their own race, races would be gone in three generations.  So, I feel as though I have nothing left to invest in my species.  I put my money where my mouth is: noting my mental illness I got a vasectomy.

As for diagnosis it is noted that because of many overlapping traits with other personality disorders a key distinction is as follows: “Someone with antisocial personality disorder is likely to have an accurate — sometimes superior — understanding of others’ thinking with little awareness or regard for their feelings. This leads the person to act out and make other people miserable — with no feeling of remorse.” I do have issues with this.  I take social cues in order to gauge feelings because I am not stupid but as for understanding the cause of them and whatever part I have in controlling them is, I am inept.

So now I wonder, am I bipolar?  Or a sociopath?

Is it possible to be something in between?

I have as many traits in one as I have in the other.  Which is damn near close to all of them in both cases.

What am I?

 

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.

Jack’s Rusty Cage and Swift Vengeance.

Things did not go as planned with Sylvie.  She decided to cancel and so there I was, frantic!  How was I going to satisfy this deep need to validate myself through sexual expression?  First I laid it on fairly thick in a hypomanic frenzy to see if she might not be willing to move some things around in order to accommodate our coupling.  Kind of crappy move, but this woman holds a special place in my mind as the “one that got away”.  No change and I think I only upset her a little bit with my continued flirtations and persistence.  I recognize this to be childish and more than a little pushy, not the kinds of traits I normally attribute to myself.  I normally don’t assert myself to women, I usually take it as it comes.

Now what?  A brief respite in the form of a visit to a female friend.  Married with kids, I have no intentions of being a pervert here.  She has other company in the form of an attractive female friend who is preparing to move some three thousand miles away.  I think that this might be interesting except for the fact that she almost immediately stonewalls me.  ME!!!  I’m used to women feeling one way or another about me but no matter what I get a reaction.  From this lady I get less than nothing.  She is a social flatliner the entire duration of my visit.  It bothers me immensely.  Especially given that I had recently had my validation bid canceled.  Things start to get dangerous as my fragile ego begins to crumble.

The next day I return to the major North American city in which I lived for around six to seven years to visit my friends.  I stay with my best friend from high school and college roommate, Damon.  With the wife and kids it’s a full house and the children are happy to see me.  I just adore them, he has a daughter, five and a son who is two.  They are delightful.  Roiling inside me however is this itch that I have not yet scratched and a massive bruise to my self-esteem.  I fire up tinder and start getting hits.  I score myself a date for Friday night when I attend a friends music show.  She seems like a super nice and really cool woman, we chat incessantly through texts like giddy high schoolers and make stupid jokes.  In the meantime however I have caved completely and the cage door has fallen off of its rusty hinges.  The teasing and promise of attention has finally pushed me into a hypomania.  Jack steps out from his dusty cell and appraises the situation.  Date on Friday, but there is still Thursday night old bean and you need to get naked with something.

Jack takes the wheel.  I tinder harder and faster, I start something that I like to call “A swing and a miss”.  When I get a match with a woman the first message I send is something inappropriate or shocking.  Something like: “You look like a good kisser, want to meet up at a secluded booth in a seedy bar and make-out?”  Or: “You don’t really seem like the one night stand type.”  The idea with these is as the name suggests, you are going to strike out for almost all of these.  Except that when you don’t… Well, you sir have found a fuck partner.  If she responds to these type of bold and outrageous advances she is likely to engage in meaningless sex, guilt free.  Sure enough I get a few hits but one stands out.  A musician and vocalist, aged forty one but surely that’s a mistake and she entered her age wrong.  She doesn’t look like she has gotten too far into her thirties let alone forties.  She looks younger than I do and I look young for my age.  We chat, she isn’t into my proposal initially (that we meet and have sex).  After a time however Jack butters her up well enough that she is intrigued and agrees to meet for sex.

We meet at a pub in the gaybourhood as she lives nearby to there.  I ask her if there is anything about her I need to know, is her address indicative of anything?  She says no.  Good, no penis.  When she comes into the bar and touches me on the shoulder to get my attention I turn and am actually shocked.  She is better looking even than her pictures and has an aura of fuckability all about her.  Seductive eyes and a nice soft sultry voice.  I drop my glasses from my pocket while moving from the bar to the table so dumbfounded I am that I am fumbling.  Not normal for me at all.  Jack gets me to the table and starts the conversation.  She is undecided whether or not to proceed.  We share stories about our past relationships and find that we have had some similar experiences.  She tells me that she has done this once before after she got out of a long controlling relationship in order to liberate herself sexually.  I totally comprehend.  I do not judge, it isn’t in my nature.  Here I am looking to score, how could I judge?

I ask her if she is really forty one.  She confirms that she is and I tell her that can’t be true, she looks younger than me.  She disagrees, I insist and point out that she has no crows feet whereas I do, a little.  I think she is a little flattered but ultimately doesn’t care.  She is comfortable with what she is and she isn’t accepting my charm as leverage in her decision to mate with me.  Jack realizes he is dealing with a genuine woman and sees what tactically needs to be done.  He releases his control over me temporarily.  I behave as a normal Dysphorian for the next half hour or so.  It comes to decision time as we finish our third or fourth drink and she signifies her acceptance by gifting me with a kiss.  We pay and leave.

Jack swoops in for the main event.  Once inside her place I use the restroom, upon returning from my visit she stops me in the hall and we begin to make out.  Deep beautiful kisses flooding me with dopamine and approval.  I have my drug.  If I thought that she looked young clothed I was in for a surprise.  A pleasant one, so don’t you worry.  Once nude her body resembles that of an endowed twenty-four year old volleyball player.  Her breasts have not sagged in the very slightest, they are high and taut.  I would think that they were fake until I felt them.  They were not.  Everything else about her is smooth, well-curved perfection.  We proceed to roll around on the top of her bedclothes without bothering to pull them over us, fully naked in one anothers coital embrace.

The next day after I return to Damon’s place I put in a text to thank her and offer a similar treatment upon my return to the city.  She enthusiastically accepts, assuming that she is unattached.  I proceed to nap and plan my evening at my friend’s music show with the next lady.  First I go to Damon’s place of work, a fine dining restaurant and throw back five cocktails.  Jack is still driving for some reason, but why?  Didn’t he get his fill last night?  After this I meet with a long time female friend and mutual friend (former musical partner) of the evenings host.  Trixie and I have a great conversation and some fried tofu and yam frites.  Jack has two more drinks.  At the venue I meet Daria, my date for the evening.  She is bright, vivacious, energetic, beautiful and fun.  We hear the music, and Jack has more to drink.  Jack kisses her right there at the table in front of my friends.  No sense of propriety at all, he does as he pleases and if that bothers you, well… that’s a you problem.  Eventually Jack gets so abrasive that he says something off-putting to Daria that has her change her mind about being out with me.  She decides to leave.  I chase after her.  In my mind I feel the need to explain to her or apologize, make it clear that I didn’t mean whatever Jack said.  Maybe she could see that I wasn’t that guy and she might decide to return.  This obviously fails and only makes me look like a douche who is desperately trying to stalk a girl for sex.  So not the case, but the lesbians in attendance will not see it that way.

Oh, Trixie is gay and married to a woman.  Many of her friends that are there are also gay.  So now I just look like a misogynistic clown who feels like he is owed sex… Sweet.  But wait, there’s more!  Jack then proceeds to flirt with anyone and anything that will listen to him, yeah…. Well done, ass.  They are all lesbians and they already don’t like you right now.  Fortunately another mutual friend steps in to save the day.  She literally throws herself into my line of belligerent jerk fire.  She takes some of the hit but then redirects me to the burrito joint next door with the company of a gay male friend who is actually a really handsome guy and some bitchy little troll-woman who won’t shut up about the fact that I brought a tinder date with me.  Whoa!  Wait a minute… how does she know this?  It isn’t as though I was advertising it… Not that it’s any of her damn business even if I did, I mean who is this fucking thing?  She is fuck uglier than a burnt corpse and giving me hell for having a date that I procured via electronic means?  Listen burnt-troll bitch, you can’t get a date… Just shut the fuck up, nobody cares and you aren’t going to shame me for using tinder.  Seeing as she is here with a woman who is literally saving my hide I don’t tell her off.  Jack is gone, diplomacy is a sure sign that he has no more control.

 

So that’s how my hypomanic outburst ruined the fun for many of my friends and made me a total shit-disturber.  Not cool at all.  Jack’s revenge for keeping him bottled up for so long.  Fuck that guy.  I would hate him more if he wasn’t totally effective at times…

Edit:  This entire blog is intended for me so at times clarification is overlooked.  Jack, for the newer readers or people who haven’t read back is Jack McBastard.  This is the name I have given my hypomanic tendencies and is not actually another person, persona or personality nor is he my attempt to shirk responsibility for my part in anything that I have done.  I am fully aware that I am squarely to blame for my behaviour.  I have since spoken to Sylvie and there is a very solid chance that we may yet reunite for a tryst or two.  I apologized for my persistence and borderline aggression.  I genuinely feel terrible about that, it really isn’t my style.  If I don’t get what I want I normally drop it and move on, I can always make good elsewhere.  As it turns out I am far more attractive than I realized, Jack is far more charming, Dysphorian is very genuine and the combination is nearly irresistible.  My self-awareness teeters on arrogance coupled with the self-justification so common in the cognition of bipolars that we are often confused as narcissistic personality disorder types.  I almost suffered a small amount of cognitive dissonance upon discovering that I was in fact attractive… I had lived so long assuming that I was average and attempting to determine and gain self-worth by sleeping with as many women as possible, something that has rather become habit and still hasn’t gone away.  Not that I would want it to.  Women are amazing.  I would have a Frank Sinatra breakfast everyday if I could.

Hurricane Hugo Boss

I would like to tell you that things have been amative and blissful with Zoe and myself, alas such is not exactly the case.  There has been a lurking tension stalking me as I find myself in her home, in her space and among her family.  I am an interloper, a squatter with no real role nor space to call my own.  Subconsciously this and other things have been weighing on me and I have not been myself.  I have been actually downright hostile.  I have gone so far as to shout and call her names, even in front of her children.  I have grouched at the toddler.  I am not particularly proud of this and I am regretful immediately the moment I have done it.  The strangest thing about it is that I feel like I am a passenger watching these events occur as a third party.  I feel embarrassed more than guilty (though I do feel guilty) as you would for someone else who lost their temper like a fool for no reason.  I have been depressed and I have difficulty determining if it is because of my disorder or just general malaise.

Zoe and I went out this weekend with some friends and there was an incident where some hooligans catcalled and harassed her as we were walking home from the bar.  Normally I suppose you might ignore this or shout something back like: “Get bent, loser!”  As a bipolar and a male feminist I actually always go a little bit further.  I always make it personal.  I went to address these assholes face to face.  Sadly however, I was silly drunk and full of dysphoric rage.  There were anywhere from eight to a dozen of them and they were all just around the legal drinking age give or take a year.  They too had been drinking.  At no point was I attempting to be gentlemanly about this, I was openly hostile and I did not give a fuck about their numbers.  I am not a coward sober and I sure as shit have no thoughts of danger when I drink.  Jack McBastard is Batman.  After some shouting and a little pushing I ascertained one mouthy little prick was the original offender and I made a dive for him.  Well, I would like to tell you that it ended well and I was a hero but there are no heroes in a story this stupid.  I caught a beating, the only thing I hit was the pavement.  I gave it the old college try more than twice, I came back for more and found myself on the ground all three times.  I got a kicking and a stomp for my efforts and eventually dragged myself into a trotting retreat.  I was furious.  I was determined to return and burn the place to the ground.  I might have too had it not been for Zoe.  I had a shouting argument with her about the location of her gasoline, which she claimed to have none of (not true).  I then jumped into my car drunk as fuck and drove to two gas stations that were both closed, pumps off.  Finally I resigned to defeat.  The dysphoric hypomania and delusional interaction of my meds and alcohol wore thin and I returned (mostly) to my senses.

Were the events of my weekend not disturbing enough, I still think that the place deserves to burn a little bit in the back of my mind.  There is a part of me that thinks it would be kind of justified.  Logically and rationally, my intelligent mind knows that this is not true.  However, were I passing the place with a gas can in my hand I would stop and start pouring.  I have resolved to never drink again ever.  It surprises me that Zoe is still with me through all of this.  She is the greatest thing ever.  I really do love her so, so very much.  I don’t know why I have behaved the way I have, I just know that it needs to stop.  Also, something I was not aware of that might be partially responsible for my outbursts is that caffeine and energy drinks can cause mania.  I will be cutting out energy drinks and down on caffeine.

Things with Zoe’s son are not ideal.  I desperately want to improve our relationship but I cannot relate to a toddler.  Sure he likes many of the same things I do but he is so high energy and his activities are all fairly exclusive.  There isn’t much that I can actually DO with him.  I can sit and watch but this gets annoying and tedious.  Zoe, like any single mother of a very small child has made her whole existence about this boy.  So much so that it leaves very little room for anyone else.  Many women with children who want to date make room or space, with her it seems that she has set her boundaries at a maximum for her child and if I can’t accept that I go.  I’ve pointed this out, told her that her house belongs forty percent to her child and she simply denies or defends it.  In defending it she is defensive almost to a hostile degree, claiming that I don’t live there so it isn’t relevant.  Which I suppose is true but not very assuring nor welcoming.  I’m still very much the outsider and that is being displayed to me very plainly.  There is a clear line in the sand and I am the only one on my side of it.

I am trying to envision a different me.  In a previous blog post I mentioned that my efforts were to blend the desirable traits of Dysphorian and Jack McBastard into one person and that would be the ideal end state.  I have changed my mind.  I think I should like to remove Jack from the picture entirely and start fresh.  I want to be the father figure that I maybe never had.  I want to be wise and dependable.  I want to be responsible and knowledgable.  I want this woman and these kids to know that when they have a problem I am the person that they can come to.  First, I owe her daughter a sincere apology for my recent behaviour as she has been exposed to much of it.  She needs to know that of all the things on this planet that I hold dear women, moreover her mother is the most sacred to me.  She needs to know that by extension she is also very, very important to me.  I need to be that better me.