Friday, April 10, 2009

The Living Hell And Slow Death Of Bipolar Disorder

Funny how not so long ago, bipolar was named manic depression. Psychiatry now calls it bipolar disorder to be more politicallly correct. PC is the norm now. Multi culture world --multi cultural city, LA. No labels. Now everyone is "challenged" instead of the stupid names from before: retard, crazy as a loon, mental case, basket case, etc.... I stare at my print of Van Gogh above my computer as I write this. An idiot savant, he? Painting in a frenzy day after day, making himself sick, wearing himself thin, bouncing off the walls. Chasing Gaugin out the door ( oh yes, Polynesia! Scantily clad maidens with frangi pangi in their hair...), cutting off an ear to give as a present to one of his favorite prostitutes.. Yeah, sounds pretty wack, but guess what? He's a MANIC DEPRESSIVE. He rides the star beams to outer and inner space and back. He is red carpet ride. Swimming through the colors. That is how I see the world---like I am intensely aware of everything, colors---sounds---movement----smells-----oh yes, smells. What is the name of the condition where you can smell or taste colors? Something --kesia. Like it hurts to be alive. LIke it rushes through my pores and into my bloodstream. Beating in my heart and pounding my brain. Reality overload. Reality too real sometimes. Must retreat. Most run from onslaught. LA is too busy. Too many people -too many cars. Too much attitude. Sensitive person must hide. Artistic sensitive person must paint, write, sing, dance, take photos, act, or go wack. Van Gogh HAD to paint. He had to get the shit out. He had to seize the brush and splash vivid life onto blank canvas. He saw too much. He felt too much. He starved too much. Drank too much. Had sex too much. Classic signs of bipolar. The other day I picked up a ball point pen and stabbed myself in my arm a few times. It is something I can't help but do. I want to kill the thing inside that hurts.

I self medicate with my medical mary jane. I am a certificate carrying licensed mary jane smoker. The beach front doc at the THC (yes, THC, as in what's the main ingredient of mary jane. ) clinic I went to was totally cool and young. Nice dark hair--friendly. He says this is his first job working out of the back of a jewelry store on the boardwalk on Venice Beach. I asked him if he was a real doctor, and he assured me he was. Listened to my bipolar woes. Said that I am the perfect patient for medical mary jane. I told him about my nightmares and how I was trying to wean myself off Cymbalta and Trazadone.

I've been on Traz for years now and could not sleep a wink until I took one to drift off. I have been off both meds for a few weeks now, and although I stay up way too late, I don't get the awful nightmares every night like before. I self medicate too much though. I want to be blotto 24/7 to not feel anything. I smoke til my lungs hurt. I smoke bongs or toke on joints. I smoke joints like they are cigarettes, inhaling deeply and often. Most people just have one or two tokes, but I gotta Bogart it. My psychiatrist doesn't know about the dosage I imbibe, but I hint to my therapist about it. I don't want to be lectured yet again about it from him. He is a nice old guy. Very understanding. He's been my Psych doc for a few years now. The mental health clinic I go to is awesome. They even send out my therapist to see me here at home. But, I digress....

....Anyway, I love Venice Beach. Very Bohemian. Very Jim Morrison and The Doors. Skaters, biker riders, muscle men and musicians , artists, gangsters and tattoo parlors. Evryone hawking something to sell. It is a busy place. Touristy. Lots of Europeans on vacation. Gentrification is creeping into Venice and pushing out artists with the high rents, but Venice Beach stays avant garde. Whatever that means. Sounds exotic. Sounds Bohemian. Got a tattoo at Venice Beach last year for my birthday. Impulsive. That has always been my prob. Symptom of bipolar. I have to stop for now. Tired. Haven't slept. I dance and listen to music a lot when I'm manic like this. I have a blind date at 1 pm today, and I haven't slept all night. It's 9 am now, maybe I can sleep a little. Gotta take a hot shower. Unfurl rigid muscles. Aches and pains. Down the shower drain.

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