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?



Wedding Smashers

A part of having been who I am my whole life is that I have behavioural habits.  Some of these are extremely difficult to control, especially when drinking.  Most are innocuous.  Though some, while seemingly innocuous are in fact quite the contrary.  The following is an example of which that leads to a series of rolling failures of which only really very few are mine.  Jack McBastard doesn’t play well with others at times, especially when women and alcohol are involved.

It begins at a wedding.  I love weddings, I like drinking, I like dancing, I enjoy company and laughter.  I also adore love hungry bridesmaids who have had a few too many sparkling rosés and find me irresistible.  I swear I’m not a predator, I just happen to do really well at weddings.  I look great in a suit and always have a very fine one for the occasion.  I arrive early with a gift and normally have a choice seat somewhere in the single digits.  Not out of earshot of the family, usually a position of reasonable respectability.  Such was the case at this particular wedding which was for a co-worker to a wealthy heiress to a regional construction mogul.  The groomsmen were comprised of current and former co-workers as well.

Here’s the curveball, normally I’m a bachelor.  This isn’t an issue but drinks are served at the ceremony itself.  That’s right, an Irish wedding.  A wealthy Irish wedding.  Jack is already bucking at the strains of his restraints.  Especially when he spots the groom’s sister.  Now, the groom was my host and only a few years older than myself.  His sister a few years younger than him and even fewer years older than me.  She was spectacular and closer to my age and place in life.  We didn’t strike up conversation until the reception just before dinner when I stepped out for a cigarette.  I was already on my way to being well lubricated but still very witty and genial.  There she was with the bride’s father and a few other of her senior family members when I slid over and lit Pam’s cigarette.  I immediately commanded a light but interesting conversation for all present and departed a touch early and confident that I had left everyone intrigued enough to pursue me further for more.  This was confirmed later in at least Pam when I found myself once again smoking only to see her excuse herself from her company to come and join me for conversation.  we spoke for a time before I returned to get drinks for myself and my girlfriend.  Dinner had come and gone and I was drunk by this point and my bachelor habits started to return.  Though despite being drunk I was holding together nicely.  I was walking fine, speaking without slurring nor raising my voice.  I’m sure I exhibited some signs, though for the most part I was alright.  Truthfully I was bombed.  I still remember the details though.  I stopped to make casual conversation with a few groups of people including a few bridesmaids who I had no interest in.  I gave them compliments because that is what you do.  It’s polite.  The bachelor, Jack McBastard, even though he is a self-serving prick knows that if you want to do well with women you keep the herd happy.  Make them all feel appreciated.

I speak to Pam again.  This time I casually mention that I have a girlfriend.  This disturbs her visibly.  It didn’t occur to me that she was very seriously flirting with me the whole time… and I was right back!  Did I mention that I had been leaving my girlfriend unattended in the banquet hall while I stepped out for cigarettes to apparently flirt with Pam?  No, I don’t think I did.  Well, I had been for the last two hours without even realizing it.  The worst is yet to come.  This jars me a little and I finally notice how drunk I am, I have two whole pints so I return to my seat and tell my girlfriend that she better help me drink at least one because I am just simply not going to be able to manage both (truthfully I could have I just don’t think that I should at this point because I made a huge mistake and felt embarrassed enough).  I go out for another cigarette hoping to apologize to Pam, no go.  I don’t see her.

On the way back though I see her on the dance floor by the bar.  I go over and try to talk I apologize and I don’t know why but, I guess because I feel bad, I kiss her on the cheek.  Then I walk back and sit down with my girlfriend.  I tell her that we may be leaving soon I just need to go to the restroom.  Upon completing this I step out only to immediately find the maid of honour right in my face.  She calls me a piece of shit and tells me that I have been trying to pick up every woman in the place.  I ask her what women.  She says that they came to her complaining, I tell her to take me to them I would love for them to tell me directly what I said to make them think that I was interested in them.  Because as we know I have had no interest in anyone yet tonight other than the unusual bachelor habit of flirting with a woman without even realizing it.  She then tells me (as though dodging a bullet) but wait, your girlfriend is crying outside.  Now why isn’t that the first thing that you would have told me?  That seems like a far more important thing to me, I need to go see her.  Yeah you better, says she…  Okay crazy bitch, go find your story telling friends who need to find really attractive men and pretend that those men are then interested in them to make themselves feel like complete and worthy women.  When you find them why don’t you all get in a van and drive it into a river while it’s on fire so you can drown WHILE burning to death.  Thanks.

I go outside to find one of the guys who I used to work with standing between my girlfriend and myself.  He blocks me from talking to her.  He blames me for causing her for being upset.  I tell her I am taking her home.  He tells me that I don’t get to talk to my own girlfriend.  Then before I know what is happening I catch a punch square in the face.  My upper tooth punctures my lower lip.  It goes clean through to the outside.  I leave my feet and land in a pile of patio furniture.  Wearing a $1400 hugo boss suit.  I’m thrilled.  Fortunately because of this last fact I have the presence of mind to not lash back.  I stand up.  I turn and I leave.  I drive, drunk as fuck to the hospital.  I text my girlfriend because she has some of my possessions and I want them back as soon as possible.  I don’t really care what she does and I won’t call the police so long as she gives me my stuff back.  Finally she asks me where I am, I’m not quite sure why she cares…

She finally demands to meet me.  I tell her I am at the hospital.  She meets me and I am NOT in a good mood.  What happened was that the guys who I used to work with manipulated her into believing I was cheating on her.  She saw the kiss on the cheek and thought that it was for real.  They simply generated controversy and conflict for sport and violence because they literally had nothing going for them and the only available woman spent the whole night flirting with me.  They needed a bullshit reason to send me to the hospital for stitches.  Easy enough when your girlfriend is an insecure 22 year old and you have a really bad habit of behaving like a bachelor.

I’ve bounced from short lived relationship to sexual fling to short lived relationship and so on for my entire life.  I’ve always been on the prowl.  I honestly don’t know how to turn it off.  I don’t know if I ever will.

Under a Dark Cloud

I find it seriously disturbing that because of the way my disorder can manifest how differently I am treated.  I mean on a less-than-conscious level.  People do it automatically without noticing it.  They don’t give me the same concessions or considerations as they would other friends.

When a friend is hurt, upset or emotional we often immediately do what we can to help, or at least sometimes just put out the offer.  We bake cookies, we watch movies, we spend time, share a drink perhaps.  Maybe we go out to the range and blow off steam by shooting up pictures of their ex.  Whatever works.  However I have noticed that in dealing with me (or others with depressive, dysphoric or elevated conditions) people act as though they are on a minefield.  Perhaps they expect me to react differently.  Maybe they feel as though they will get sucked into my deeply involved psychological issues.  Or perhaps it’s as simple as just not having the energy to deal with me.  However the reaction isn’t merely distancing and indifference, no it gets much worse.  People will treat you like an asshole.  An interloping shit disturber.  They will call you names and get into arguments with you, maybe only on social media but this will probably result in them unfriending you and then never talking to you again.  They get downright hostile with you because even though they know that you are bipolar and prone to fits of manic dysphoria they just don’t care that there is an inherent underlying issue.

They don’t care that your reckless behaviour lately is the fallout of self-medicating.  Nope, you’re a dangerous drunken jerk and you piss them off.  You could endanger their family so why don’t you just go fuck yourself?  Forget that we’ve been friends since high school.  Forget that they should know better why you are acting out this way… Forget all that.  You’re not welcomed there anymore and your problems don’t fucking matter.  I want to say that people are selfish and self-interested, self-preserving and judgmental assholes.  Well, I can say that because they are, to me.  Yet you see them with their neighbour whom they’ve known for a few months and their cat has been hit on the highway.  You see them make soup or bake a cake for this person.

I don’t expect you to bake me a fucking cake.  However, when you have a full and busy day of people screaming at you and your boss riding you, think about how you feel.  Now imagine that while combating a demon all day.  One that can possess you and make you say and do strange impulsive shit that makes enemies out of even your closest friends.  Imagine that.  Think about what that must be like.  Wondering if the next time your boss yells at you you won’t come out of a rage-haze fifteen minutes later eating a sandwich with cut and bruised hands covered in his blood.  Having no clue what happened until you hear him crying under his desk into the phone for 911.  Wondering why you are sitting on his berber tapioca carpet crosslegged and eating the sandwich his wife packed for him.  You know it’s his because he has one everyday wrapped in wax paper and you always buy fast-food…

Fortunately the violent extreme episodes have been limited to three but you don’t know what triggers the ‘fight’ portion of your “fight or flight” response.  And once that switch gets flipped it has one setting: Maximum.  Also, you won’t remember it.  Except when fight turned into flight…  Out of love?  No clue, I digress.

So everything you can do I can do drowning.  Or on fire.  Or however you want to look at it.  Here are two of the primary reasons that I know I’m more intelligent than most: genetics, can’t discount that, and war.  I have developed a keenly honed sense of cunning from having been at war with myself for my entire life.  Imagine being locked in a battle against someone with every advantage that you have exactly.  You share the same mind and you have to outwit them.  My mind is an arms race.  So yes, I’m sorry that my border skirmish is spilling over into reality and causing some heartbreak on your end.  To wit:

“I need you to hear. I need you to see.
That I have had all I can take
And exploding seems like a definite possibility
To me
So Pardon me while I burst into flames.
I’ve had enough of the world, and its people’s mindless games
So Pardon me while I burn, and rise above the flame
Pardon me, pardon me. I’ll never be the same.”
-Excerpt of lyrics from “Pardon Me” by Incubus.

Oh, and my mind is like a junkyard.  I keep everything.  I remember every lyric.  I remember every slight, every conflict and insult.  I don’t hold grudges but the heart can only take so much.  Especially given my junkyard gallery of horrors, populated with the social atrocities inflicted upon me by friends.  The alienation.  The double standard and guilt.  The regret.

Most of this precipitated by nothing more than a bout of depression or dysphoria, or a combination of the two. Or maybe a flawed medication. One wrong phrase or a few sentences and people are more than willing to throw a whole person away. Because… feelings. And people wonder why disenfranchised loners with psychological problems shoot up a mall. Because you push them out into the wilderness by themselves after years of friendship for no reason at all whatsoever after a single conversation like nothing about your relationship ever mattered and never talk to them again…
I can’t help but totally commiserate with these people. You wonder why the world is broken? Because you are actively breaking it.

Compassion.  For everyone, especially those of us who desperately need it the most.  Need it the most because whether you see it or not we are taking on your pain at the same time as all of the above.  I’m reminded of a small exchange in “The Perks of Being a Wallflower”:

Charlie: There is so much pain. And I-I-I don’t know how to not notice it.
Dr.Burton: What’s hurting you?
Charlie: No, not… not me. It’s them! It’s… it’s everyone. It never stops. Do you understand?

This hit me pretty hard.  Because it’s true.  Our empathy is too strong and it drives our passions.  It’s the reason that we get so upset about good causes and stopping all the injustice in the world.  It’s the reason that we care so deeply and in turn become so wounded when we aren’t given that care.  We know that it’s hard to see through the conflagration and chaos that we drag around like our own personal pet hurricane.  Please just know that it’s there and be nice to us.  Know that we are hurting.  In ways you have yet to imagine.

Lightning By Twos.

My weekend featured a rather strange series of events with a few twists.  First I will begin in my therapists office.  There I am with Lilith and we have come to the conclusion that because I can no longer contact Zoe (my most recent significant ex) I cannot gain closure.  Therefore I still harbour some unresolved issues that are hindering my progression.  She notes that I have a changed demeanour since she met me (when I was still with Zoe).  That my habits have changed and that I seem less focused.  I admit that this is true, that I suppose without someone else in my life, someone else to look out for I have no reason to work on me.  If it’s just me on my own I can ride whatever wave of debauchery or destruction suits me.  She suggests that maybe for my own sake that I write (maybe even here in my blog, which I will in fact do next) a letter of closure addressed to Zoe, get it all off of my chest.  Say all the things that I wanted to say that were left unsaid.  I like this idea so I am going to do it, of course.  Though, speak the devils name and she shall appear.  I have not encountered nor caught the faintest glimpse of this woman in several months in the tiny, shitty community to which we are inured.

I have my standard Friday Karaoke only this night I have assisted a female colleague, who is nearly a decade my junior and quite pretty, to dress as a woman.  You see, she has a bad habit of dressing as though she is a teenage male nerd.  She “doesn’t know how to girl” as she puts it.  Of all the people she could go to to solve this issue, she came to me and I feel quite touched and proud that she trusts my taste.  We go shopping and I make some suggestions (including really sexy Calvin Klein formal evening heels that were on sale for super cheap) until she eventually begins selecting clothing that I approve of.  She dresses herself for the evening entirely in items that she selected (with my approval) proving that she can in fact “girl” with a little light guidance.  There is a birthday party taking place at our regular watering hole for one of our co-workers hence the requirement to put in the effort.  We arrive earlier than we normally would in order to make well-wishes to the birthday boy.  There are drinks and mostly good times, the ladies in attendance are astounded by my colleagues newfound feminine appearance and quite impressed with her taste.  I receive some credit but feel it important to point out that she chose the entire outfit with the exception of accessories.  She is actually the best dressed woman in the group.  I am proud.

There is a small amount of drama surrounding the posting of pictures to facebook that I rise above because frankly I have better things to do and women to sleep with this very night.  When I am done with the birthday party and Karaoke I round up some of my young male hang-abouts and we head to the one local dance pit.  I am admittedly a tad sliced, someone else pays my cover and gets my first drink.  Young males tend to like Jack McBastard when he is let off the leash.  Tonight Jack is being genial because I think he knows that we have similar goals.  I get to the dancefloor and spot you-guessed-it Zoe.  I take a few steps toward her to let her know I want nothing to do with her, I’m here to get laid and could care less about her.  You do you, I’ll do me.  However… as I take a few steps, like a childish twat, she and her bimbo friend go scurrying, and  mean scurrying as though they had planned this manoeuvre, behind the nearest bouncer who watches over the dancefloor.  In my state I think to myself: “Oh shit… this psycho bitch is going to get me kicked out.”  Keep in mind that I have never done the slightest thing against this woman (I admit I shouted at her a few times, though it was in extreme cases and I am in fact bipolar, no excuse, I know).  Keep in mind that when she texted me to threaten me with police action for completely inexplicable reasons if I texted her again, to which I agreed, she took THAT as a reason to call the police on me…  The woman is entirely unstable and I’m not sure that she should be responsible for children.

There I am worried that she is telling the bouncer that I am a stalker or worse, so I decide to just go face the music.  Better to get it out of the way rather than be jerked off the dancefloor by your neck.  I approach the bouncer and express that this whole thing is dramatics, that I am no threat to anyone and that she is being completely silly.  Oddly enough, though he does not look friendly nor pleased he simply tells me to go mind my business and have nothing to do with her. To this I am in full agreement, probably to his surprise.  So I continue on my business, though it doesn’t end here…  I dance with the intent of finding a woman.  I find a few and they find me, however everytime I get even close to Zoe’s half of the dancefloor she and her friend once again scurry behind the bouncer.  Which I catch only in passing out of the corner of my eye and only because he is on a raised platform.  Each time this happens and I manage to see it I think there is easily expressed on my face a look that states “are you fucking kidding me?!”  Because I genuinely do not care.  I am getting attention and giving it to women who are more than a decade younger than me.  Ultimately it is a pair of these that I settle on.

Cousins.  I like the taller one and I think the shorter one knows this the moment I dance up as she pushes my pelvis right into her cousins hips.  Bingo, too easy.  After dancing with them for a few songs the tall one goes to the restroom and the shorter one takes a table just off the dancefloor.  I take this opportunity to go get a drink.  Upon my return I find them sitting at the table with a bald man standing there with them, his back to me.  I walk up to the tall one with whom I haven’t yet exchanged a single word, throw my arm around her look at her and say something to the effect of: “Hey sweetie who’s this guy?”

The bald man grabs his drink off the table and darts into the crowd without a word.  The girls thank me profusely but then the tall one asks me what if she was interested in that guy?  I answer instantly: “Oh that’s easy, he was competition and he disappeared into the crowd so fast you’ll never find him again.  I win.”

She admits that this is pretty clever but reassures me that she is way more interested in me.  At some point between getting drinks and cigarette breaks I have a chance to talk to the cousin and she tells me that she was trying to find the tall one a cute guy and I say to her that she isn’t going to find anyone more attractive than me.  I guess she must have agreed because I take the tall one home no more than thirty minutes later.  She’s twenty two, I have more than a bakers dozen years on her.

I wake up next to Delilah and ask her what she’s doing for the rest of the day.  She tells me that at some point she needs to do laundry but other than that nothing.  I ask her if she wants to take a trip to the big city to pick up my new Hugo Boss suit that is finished being fitted.  She thinks that sounds like fun and off we go.  It’s a good day, we have lunch in a well-known, slightly upscale pub downtown (my treat).  The food is phenomenal.  We just enjoy the ride in the car together, the music, the company.  When we return to my place we spend more time between the sheets before I take her home so she can get her laundry done.  I use the term “home” loosely here because it’s actually her cousins as she is currently residing in the big city that we had just visited for work, though she is originally from the area local to me.  Before I drop her off we make plans for that night.

I pick her up around eight thirty and I take her to a restaurant that I only just recently discovered.  As I walk in the front door I recognize a voice resonating from a large table of around ten women in the middle of the main room just off the entrance.  I see a woman I recognize named Gwen who is not speaking that happens to be best friends with you-guessed-it Zoe.  I step past a column that was blocking my view and sure enough there she is with her back to me, easily identified by the large, half-sleeve shoulder to elbow, floral tattoo.  I utter an actual ‘You have got to be fucking kidding me…’ out loud before I grab Delilah’s arm and turn her around quickly explaining.  As I glance back past the column I see Gwen interrupting Zoe’s diatribe with what is obviously: ‘Dysphorian is here’.

I take Delilah to another restaurant where I know the owners husband as he is a co-worker of mine.  A fabulous place that specializes in a particular french cuisine in a cozy little romantic bistro setting.  After a marvellous meal we retire to my place where we yet again spend the night in one another’s arms naked and carefree.  The next morning I return her to her sister this time who is moody that she didn’t tell her where she was nor that she was early enough as she likes to return to the big city early on Sundays.  We have the intention of seeing each other again from here going forward, she is genuinely very interested in me and very turned on by me.  You know, right now maybe that’s all I need.  We haven’t defined this, I don’t think we will either.  She’s young and she will likely move on before long but if she doesn’t that is totally fine too.  I’m not sure I need the closure at this point but I am going to write it just to get it out of my mind.

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.

Derailed/Breaking Point

As I recently mentioned I was sent on a company trip to a seminar.  Things have not gone well.  Not at all.  I have been experimenting with alcohol over the last little while again with a fair amount of success.  This has only encouraged me to do something really stupid.  I was on this seminar with nine others from the company, four of which were in my immediate department. These are people that I have known and worked with for three or more years.  I wouldn’t call them best friends but I have attended private events at their homes and even helped them on a personal level.  One I helped move and another I helped return a car to a dealership by giving them a ride home (in a blizzard no less).  I have been on multiple company forays with these individuals, I have been drunk in their presence dozens of times.  I am in all other ways comfortable around them.  This is the lulling falsehood of social activity that sets the stage for a trap.  You see, there happens to be this odd sort of social behaviour in my job wherein we say incredibly disturbing things.  Intentionally.  Seriously.  You know dead baby jokes?  My industry and more than likely my very company probably invented them.  No joke.  We say incredibly unthinkable, crass, crude, barbaric shit at any given moment, like a nerve check.  The idea behind this one might imagine is that the one who flinches or shows distaste, the one who reacts or shows signs of distress is the weakest link.  A softie.  I know, it is incredibly childish and not overly gentlemanly but you play the game, right?

Perhaps it is because of my dark vision but I have never reacted much to these and often find myself at odds while playing this game.  In point of fact it makes me feel a little like an alien whenever this kind of thing comes up.  When someone says something that I assume is truly horrible and everyone groans or grimaces and I do not react at all or merely stand there and smile like a fool I feel like a bit of a psychopath.  Then I start to wonder if maybe I’m not.  My attempts at joining in at this game have always been fairly successful because as I have mentioned I am reasonably clever and I keep it simple.  I merely state something sexual about a nearby elderly or morbidly obese woman and we are off to the races.  Simple.  Don’t get me wrong, I think this game is fucking vapid and pointless and I really hate playing it but it is a part of fitting in to my workplace social sphere so I do as others do. Here is where it gets particularly tricky for me.

I am on this seminar and I have recently begun experimenting with alcohol and things have been going pretty damn well.  I am surrounded by people I know who I am supposed to trust as they have trusted me in the past and I have reason to believe that all should be well.  I let loose.  A little too loose.  Regrettably and embarrassingly loose…  Let’s wind the clocks back to these two posts: meds/alcohol and hungover ramblings.  This will give you a frame of reference for the kind of thing that you can expect.  Well, you combine these two posts with a little game I like to call “let’s get childishly disgusting and inappropriate” and then you have me, good old Dysphorian opening a demonic rift to the pit of hades.  Inside this portal stands not a balrog, nor a satyr, nor any other imaginable horror.  No, something far worse.  The twisted mind of none other than Jack himself, dapper though he may be in appearance, inside his head roils all of my horrific dark vision and the frustration of having been imprisoned by my medication for far too long.  Again, I want to pause here for the new readers, though they may be few or none at all, and state that Jack is not actually an alter ego.  He is merely a name I have applied to all of my bad/puckish/negative/bold/subversive behaviours.  He is suave, sophisticated, charming alas he also embodies my stronger qualities and in the past has been my enforcer/protector and go-to degenerate.  Especially the later.

We are in the car ride back from the bar whereupon departing I had the brilliant idea in my already inebriated state to order two shots of hard liquor and down them in one go.  Don’t worry, the driver was sober.  We are speaking exuberantly at a near shout, a roadside pitstop has to be made to provide my bladder with relief.  After resuming our trek conversation continues and jokes are told when out of nowhere Jack bursts forth.  The alcohol has washed the effects of some of the meds away and blended with the wellbutrin to give him super-powers.  From the recesses of his putrid mind, in the bowels of his depravity he pulls forth an entry into the aforementioned game.  I shan’t repeat it as even in anonymity it shames me beyond utterance.  I will say this however, it involves period discharge, my face and a woman of not yet legal age…  I suppose by now you are ready to vomit.  I certainly am.  In saying the very words and discovering myself to have said them the next day I suffered from a serious amount of cognitive dissonance.  Still am actually.  My sober self finds anything sexual with minors to be the highest possible crime to our species.  I put it above murder and regular rape, as in murder at least you release your victim from the torture of it and with rape it is an adult mind with some resilience and fewer years to suffer.  But with the underaged they are doomed to an entire life with the memories and trauma of it.  Believe me when I say that I am not this way inclined even remotely and find it beyond reprehensible.  I personally think that any nation that allows child marriages to take place should be invaded, so strong is my disgust.

Now, it was fairly irresponsible for me to drink on my meds and think that it would be okay.  It was unreasonable of me to trust these co-workers yet again to have my back as that has not historically worked in my favour (I think that it must be obvious to the reader that I am not a popular individual which is a sad truth that I am only just now beginning to realize myself).  So it should be clearly expected that the reaction to this would not be a favourable one.  I said the age fourteen, specifically not as though it matters…  You would think however that I had confessed to actually having committed some far creepier act (like what I don’t know and do not care to imagine nor postulate here).  This game is universal at my workplace, everyone either knowingly or unknowingly plays this and the usual reaction is “Ugh!” whereafter everyone rolls their eyes and moves the hell on.  Yes, my comment was definitely across the line.  By more than a few yards.  However, what I suppose my hallucinating and delusional med-mixed drunken mind was thinking was that everyone would do just that.  This was not the reaction I got.  They took me very seriously.  VERY seriously.  So seriously in fact that all males present were threatening to murder me.  This bewildered me.  I won’t lie I really didn’t know what was happening at all.  I was so confused.  One moment I was sitting in the back seat of the car being polite and enjoying a conversation and next thing I know the entire population of the car was being openly hostile toward me.  Somewhere in those moments the full force of the most disturbing works in the back of Jack’s (my) mind came bubbling forth and shat out something that I will never in a million centuries fathom repeating.

Here I am in the middle of a hostile gang of passengers in a car doing sixty-five miles per hour, give or take five miles.  In this state of mind (pay close attention to the second line of the first interaction as I was likely experiencing most if not all of them) with people behaving extremely aggressively toward me.  I guess they had the right, I probably would have except I would have been smart enough to remember the conversation that we had at the start of the evening about what could potentially happen with my medication.  Instead of treating me with open hostility as a long term colleague and even friend I might have instead reacted with yes, a fair amount of alarm but then concern.  Concern that they were not in their right mind.  Concern that they were troubled, or that the very reaction they had warned me of was taking place.  Instead I was being branded as an irredeemably sick fuck and told that I was going to be killed.  In this hallucinatory, delusional state I lashed out at the rear seat passenger, feeling cornered and paranoid.  Next thing I know it gets out of control and the best I can do is open the door of the still moving car in the hopes of either forcing the driver to pull over or making a leap for it.  Please note, I am not in any way thinking rationally here.  Eventually they get me calmed down and back into the car and we make the rest of the drive back to our accommodations.  Still other passengers persist in shaming me and threatening me.  It is decided that I will sleep in another room of our otherwise shared accommodations and sort out our differences in the morning.

Everything seems fine from the haze of my slumber where all of the nights events have been forgotten.  Until I am awoken by a police officer.  Great.  I believe in law and order but waking up to a cop is never a good thing, ever.   Questions are asked.  I am told that I will make an appearance at the station in the morning to give a more complete statement.  Rather than keep things quietly to ourselves one of the gutless dickholes in the car decided to go running under the skirt of the supervisor on our trip.  He happens to be one of the other five not in my department.  He also happens to be a spineless puddle of donkey sperm because he then goes and calls the police.  Yeah.  Better still, they tell the police what I said verbatim.  Yeah.  WHAT THE FUCK?!  I think when I told them that I have psychological issues and that I take pills, when I put my trust in them as human-beings, colleagues, friends even.  I didn’t expect them to try to turn me in to the police as a sex offender for something I said while fucked up and hallucinating on said meds mixed with alcohol.  I like to believe that Eminem taught mine and the next few generations at least one thing and that is that just because someone says something that does not make them that thing.  Me merely declaring:  I am Superman, does not make it so.  Also stating that one fucks chickens in his grandmother’s clothing does not make that necessarily true.  No, I definitely should not have mentioned any kind of depraved act on a fourteen year old.  No, I definitely should not mix meds with alcohol.  No, I should definitely NOT TRUST the useless pieces of shit I work with.  They are probably the flimsiest most unreliable shitrags I have ever encountered.  In addition to not only failing me totally, they sold me out for something I wasn’t and then later when I retuned to ask what happened they all passed the buck and sold each other out.  Sickening.  The most wretched group of weasels ever begotten.  Not worthy of my respect, trust nor protection.  If they cannot extend it, I would never in my life return it.  To this point as I have mentioned I have already done for them more than they have ever done for me.

I sincerely hope that there does not exist a file of me somewhere that lists me as a potential predator.  I would hate to think what I would do were that the case.  I actually went on a tirade last year upon reading a number of cases and began trying to understand these assholes.  I started researching their methods fastidiously in the complete off-chance that I might happen upon one by pure happenstance or come to understand them in some small way, that it might make me feel less nauseated by the whole thing.  Other than finding out how they get around the internet I found nothing.  It made me feel worse knowing that their techniques are really hard to prevent.  Right there is the root of my problem.  My mind latches on to the things that it finds most repulsive that it has no control over.  It tries so desperately hard to create some semblance of order and justice in the miasma of chaos and carnage and when it comes up empty it reaches the breaking point.  That breaking point is where I have to try to make it into something funny (either consciously or subconsciously) or I can’t cope.  Now as I have said, I don’t normally like that game that we play at work, but perhaps my mind subconsciously was still struggling with the issue of sexual predation.  Perhaps it has something unresolved stored back there that needed to be said or pulled loose, like a thorn in my paw.  In my intoxicated and delusional state I think my mind finally decided to set it free and as it turns out some things really just never are funny.  Well, this is what I am going to tell myself in order to prevent cognitive dissonance from tearing my whole mind apart.

As for being torn apart.  I’m certain word has made it back to “the office” and I will soon find myself under fire from all kinds of jackholes who are worried about their children.  Convinced I am some child-horny vampire they will probably want to tar and feather me.  I look forward to this like most people look forward to root canal on a boat in a storm, with a giant fucking pick-axe up their ass.  This is going to be unpleasant and pretty much impossible to explain.  I am going to be permanently stained by this, no matter what I do there will always be one fucktard who is utterly convinced that I am indeed a child molester.  This idiot will spread rumours until the end of time, regardless what anyone tells them.  Not like it was bad enough that I wanted to kill myself before I was branded a creep several months ago, let’s see where this goes.