Do diagnoses matter? Need I list my medications? Tell the number of years of confinement? Shall I share a photo of the scars of my nasty stigmata? Will this be viewed as a success story, a cautionary tale, a morality play, or Bedlam Ravings?

Bipolar, then, and what is now called borderline personality disorder. A dozen other labels, only found in the unabridged editions. Eighteen years of major depression with rare mania, nine years of institutionalisation, too many treatments to name, dear Esmeralda, too many to name. I came back from the dead to ring the bells.

Loss, grief, abandonment. Nightly dreams of those who abandoned, speaking with the dead whilst awake, and exacting punishment upon my hated self over He Who I Abandoned.

Platitudes repel me. I am offended by the banal. I was, or I became, resistant to treatment. I was saved, dear gawd, saved from that darkest deadest hell by a toggle-switch and that sweet, sweet, sweet Mania emerged, like a full-force-gale, and I was LIFTED UP AGAIN.

As GRANDIOSE GOD, I became angry at – aggressive towards – the sniveling sod that I saw.
One, two, three, four,
I became the needful *****.
Five, six, seven, eight
Pity those whom I hate.

BPD+BPD unleashed. Django Unchained. Looking down, deep and deeper and asking:

What SHAMES me greater? The sorrow or the anger?

Well, Jesus F. Christ, I was assailed by the sum of my symptoms, assaulted and assassinated: I suffered, died and was buried. I descended into Hell. Three months, I stayed in Hell and you can guess the rest?

I arose from the dead.

But I’m no god nor a symptom-cluster-****. I had to dig, in some cases re-dig, dozens of graves. Shed the shades-a-haunting. Cleave the heads off of the symptoms with a hatchet and, with daily diligence, keep them at bay-away.

I am, as described, a reanimated exquisite corpse. In mind and body I am, dear friends, a benevolent MONSTER. I am a Quixotic Wheelchair WARRIOR for TRUTH, JUSTICE and the AMERICAN WAY. I am only, as any reanimation, the sum of my PARTS. My unnamable PARTS. My unspeakable PARTS. A FREAK, a SIDESHOW ATTRACTION and you must pay to see me. A 112-pound weakling with no faith in any god or Charles Atlas.

My advice – my twisted support – is free. My words – my cryptic writings – are free. My crudeness, my crassness, my coarseness, my foul and filth – all free! Part of my THERAPY, dear ones.

You need only PAY for my the HORROR SHOW OF MY BODY and my POLITICS.

Meh. You don’t get the whole of the story for nothing, ya see. I’m no martyr or victim and I’ve found that I can be outraged and cruel and heartless and simple and kind and broken-hearted and still retain humble self-esteem. This. That. The ****in’ ‘humble self-esteem.’ I will not, I cannot, lie – this **** is new to me.

We are all actively engaged in the art of dying. Life ends. So it goes. Some people pursue a LEGACY in hopes of being, um, remembered. My experience has been that it is the INFAMOUS that we most often recall rather than the GOOD and NOBLE. “The good is oft interred with their bones.” So let it be. With me. With you and you and you. We don’t get to decide the GOODNESS of our deeds, nor is it left to some invisible mythical spirit or witches or titans to decide.

Sartre was such a disappointment to me. It’s oh-so-cute and memorable but hell isn’t other people (for Sartre I wish the hell of a Sisyphus egged on by a giggling Goering). Lars Von Trier’s Dogville is a MORALITY PLAY in which the morality of our wicked species is presented and (oh, so effing trite and I apologise in advance!) the axiom is reversed to read, “no bad deed goes unpunished.” This appears a queer conundrum, yes? Evil in both examples? Well, no. (Spoiler to follow.) In Dogville, Moses life is spared. Moses is the HOWLING DOG, the only innocent DOG in DOGVILLE.

Moses is innocent, yes, not complicit in the inhumanity visited upon the VICTIM and JUDGE but he’s just a ****ing dog. Moses LEGACY is his HOWL (Allen, baby). ‘I saw the best minds of my generation,’ ya know?

I lied. You, anyone, everyone, each of us are no more than a sum of our parts. We are all exquisite corpses. We may do good, do good so well as to be recognised (and, possibly, remembered for a few generations), we may do evil, evil so beastly as to be recognised (for thousands upon thousands of years) or we can walk a middle path, doing no good or evil.

Now, me. Were I some judge-god, I would ******* the two latter and cast a suspicious eye upon the first.

My point (lost in opaque translations) is that those of us who enjoy mental illnesses – those of us not gifted with insanity – participate with and within our symptoms. I believe that we have, however small, a degree of agency with and within our symptoms. Personally, I have been guilty of relieving myself of any willing participation with my well-being.

These forums. My final point. I was once active here. I enjoyed some praise and I enjoyed moderator damnation. I understand that we are here to discuss our illnesses and to offer support – and maybe advice without analysis – to one another. As a REAL LIFE EXAMPLE of crossing that boundary I will offer the case of a 17-year-old self-described horny male virgin who posted a message here asking if he might be bipolar because he found girls to be sexually attractive. He termed his obsession as ‘hypersexual.’ Unconscionably, supporters sought to convince him that he possibly needed to see a doctor of sorts and might need medication. The teen was brighter than his supporters and said his farewells and I took the thread off-topic and it was, thankfully, closed.

If I begin to visit here with any regularity I’m certain to go beyond the ‘go get ‘em, tiger,’ support phrases. If I see a kitten in any guise with a ‘Hang in There!’ motto I will attempt to make the poster regret his or her own birth. I enjoy a degree of control over my aggressive writings but I don’t play well with ignorance. I appreciate the fact that no one comes here to publish scholarly papers and that many, like myself, don’t give a dozen tinker’s damns about effing spelling or punctuation. I hate – I really do – the limitation on cursing because I have felt a new-found freedom in allowing my naughty-bits to fly high.

Bipolar Pride. Ours, yours and mine. #

I don't know what to say after reading this post.

when I read the title, I thought it was like a speech (like martin luther?), but obviously different.. something like, all bipolar people stand together, we are stronger than this illness, more than our illness... something like that

but after reading, well, it seems like a cross between creativity and your own thoughts

I do hope you continue to post to the forum, we'd miss you if you didn't

but I understand what you're saying

[Shazerac]

Woke up a 3:00. Came here and read this. Interesting. Thank you for sharing your thoughts.

Originally Posted by shattered sanity

I don't know what to say after reading this post.

when I read the title, I thought it was like a speech (like martin luther?), but obviously different.. something like, all bipolar people stand together, we are stronger than this illness, more than our illness... something like that

but after reading, well, it seems like a cross between creativity and your own thoughts

I do hope you continue to post to the forum, we'd miss you iof you didn't

but I understand what you're saying

Stream-of-consciousness gone astray. Yes, posting Theseus (ha-ha-ha) on cathedral door. A manifest (destiny). Yes, by George, you have it! In the midst of madness, we can be strong, stronger, strongest than any symptom!

We stand apart, right? We are QUEERER than any FOLK. Not damaged so much as evolving? Ashamed that we crawled out of the primordial stew to walk upon land? No! Proud, pride; share, talk... oh, Jesus, I feel like... I know! I feel, felt, the same!

Who writes this shite? Dr Bronner, back from the dead. Free jazz riffing, ya know? Resist? No, revolt. Re-volt-ing? We’re not, not all of you (us)? Revolution’s in the air. Do you smell the smoke? The gunpowder (plot)? Penny - nay, half-crown - for the Guy! Penny-wise, pound-foolish... me on a spending spree.

These... things. These symptoms? Read 1-2-3 in DSM. Me, me, me, you, you, you, all of us! We’re romping in the same PLAYHOUSE but we exit, holding hands, as the playhouse burns. We’re a polyamorous group! We are! We need be! We need. We.

We. Not I, not me. No gods, no monsters. Yes, the sum of parts but not, I need emphasize, not the sum of our symptoms.

Empathy. God-damn, but yes. In droves and shroves and I have driven and shriven that oddness, too.

Think, please: I beg you. Do you really - really, really - want to be defined by your illnesses? Be defined by your medications? Honestly? Is that all? Is that all that you are? Me, I have eleven different types of heart diseases. When I wheel my arse outside do I hear, “here comes heart disease”? No. Neither do I ignore these illnesses - I try, I attempt, I make an effort, I do - I stay aware and awake and aid and abet the treatment of every 1, 2, 3, &etc., symptom.

I get by with a great deal of help from my friends and lovers. Depressed, my passion was limp. Refreshed - not cured, not fixed - I can love, again; this thin, pale, scarred body (Corpus) is tasted and caressed by lovers old and new. My head, hair thinning, held in hands and soft lips upon the scars upon my face. I first knew her 45-years ago. Her, him, 42-years back. I forgot. I forgot touch. I forgot taste.

Falter and fall and slither like a worm. Sure, yeah, naturally. No simple-minded saying, “I fall down, I get up.” I require helping hands. You, maybe, too?

Miles Standish Proud. Nothing creative here. Plagiarism and auto-bio-graphy. Dipping into FORBIDDEN BOOKS and sweeter memories.

We - mutate - quickly.

I’m delighted that you read-between-the-lines! I pay pounds-on-pennies for pegging my plagiarisms!

I do not do. Well. I do not do well in my attempt to capture fancies. The first message? The title? Not intriguing. Grounded rotten apple. I’ve passion, righty-right-all, but no SHOWMANSHIP.

If we’re honest; if I am to be honest, I believe that even the most magnanimous moderators have selfish reasons for being here. There’s a word for that, and studious studies show. Help, support,of course. Other reasons. Some people undress and expose themselves. Some people are voyeurs, watching the orgy of naked bodies roiling. Some folks really are damaged - those that bought into the fallacy that they are their illnesses. Some people become addicted to this place and some come and run.

The only commonality that I believe that I have eked out following personalities in a random fashion is: everyone here is afraid. Everyone here has a fear. Or many fears.

All. We are sick and afraid. Here? This is a Grand Costumed Masked Ball but absolutely nothing happens at midnight. Yeah, some of us are naked, some in glorious dress, Some Walmart People (Google), some so ostentatious and pompous as to inspire reflex vomiting. Masks on, masks off, all sick and afraid.

I wonder. I am in wonder and awe at how wonderful and awful we can be.

A final word.

But ya know that I gotta provide an illustration - you can call it an illusion if you don’t trust me.

I have never understood why people enter into lifelong monogamous heterosexual marriages. I know of many lifelong, non-monogamous, non-heterosexual marriages lasting four decades. I think the former perverse. I find the latter intriguing. Not my Earl Grey, but mysterious. These many marriages are between friends of mine, and lovers, and the answer to the riddle, the thing that they share is: honesty.

Previously, I wrote of my distaste for the banal. Now, introducing ‘honesty’ as a trait to bind and bond and keep bonded? Bile in my throat. A blood pressure spike. A fit of pique.

Earlier, I suggested that we are a polyamorous bunch.

Successfully guiding the polyamorous kayak down the killer river of one Class V rapid after another requires honesty. I’ve been told.

Being openly afraid and honest with one another would be so - Christ, I don’t know. Yes, I do; I’m afraid to say.

Coffee and an egg-white omelet.

Originally Posted by Shazerac

Woke up a 3:00. Came here and read this. Interesting. Thank you for sharing your thoughts.

You caught me out.

Mathematical Word Problems. Hospitals (in principle and practice).
Near the top of the list: The Things I Fear Most.

SAT. SAT. SAT. I SAT as I answered the SAT questions. A BABY with a NUMBER TWO pencil. What can I SAY? I always tested well, gurl, I always tested well.

Sharing. Compersion. True story. When I was young, 6-years-old or so, I derived pleasure by sharing objects with others and watching as they used this object or objects.

A girl has a sheet of paper but is in need of a pencil to draw a petalled pansy upon her paper. She needn’t ask, my pencil is in her hand. As she draws I think, I believe, I want to believe, that she feels some pleasure bringing my pencil in play on her paper, because I am engorged with visual delight. Obviously phallic but that further explains the compersion that commenced in my 13th year.

Sharing. It is my pleasure.

Should you ever need a pencil...

[5150DirtDiva]

Very Faulknarian. I love this style of writing, it is so authentic.

[emgreen]

What a boatload. If this convoluted piece has anything to do with being proud of bipolar disorder, count me out. If you feel proud, you may not have waded through enough BS.

[jacky8807]

you don't have to be ashamed but why would I be proud about having bipolar

are ppl proud of depression, cancer,diabetes,blue eyes, etc?
proud of sometsomething i didn't ask for and personally I don't want
nah

[UpDownAround]

tl;dr

I enjoy your untamed thought train. I hope these truths you have found provide you comfort. I don't mean to be insulting but I wonder if you are a bit on the manic side perhaps?

I can understand much of what you are trying to say and other parts not so much. I think it's tempting to judge how others view or treat their illness. How much comfort they receive from diagnosis or listing their meds and symptoms. It's human to feel we have it figured out while the rest of the poor souls are out there doing it ALL wrong. Recently I'm understanding how far from objective the truth can be......how my version of it and how the world makes sense to me personally is very different from the next person. I'm always looking for people who have all the answers.....I'd love to find them and be guided.......I've met lots of people who acted like they knew it all or thought they did but once I dug deeper I was disappointed because my truths are personal and nobody seems to have this crap figured out. My mental illness is not all I am but it is a big part. That might be wrong to some but until the creator of the universe comes down and shines a light on a messiah, I just see opinions, not universal truths.

Originally Posted by emgreen

What a boatload. If this convoluted piece has anything to do with being proud of bipolar disorder, count me out. If you feel proud, you may not have waded through enough BS.

Ha! Ye may not be using all of yer fingers to count my years of institutionalization? 33+ years livin’ with this shite, Verlaine and Rimbaud relationships, bankruptcies &etc. No, friend, not to brag, (I cannot wade) but I have inched my way through the shite, face-first, face-down. The REAL reason that I know what happens is because, every day, I wrote the book.

The piece, convoluted or no, needs Seer Stones to unravel (I got mine wholesale from a couple of wholesome LDS missionaries).

Ya, yarbles, ye can jest infinitely roil in the slop with the porcine-bros or ye ken join the band - I spy you as a horn, the euphonium? - and shed the shame.

Proud. Pride. Funny words, ain’t they? We talk real funny down here.

Did ye do yer daddy proud? Is that bull the pride of yer studs?

By Jesus! With the interweb I can watch a Pride of Lions supping on a Flock of Seagulls.

Waller in your shame, cry out that it’s your disease that’s talkin’!

What I’ll say: I’ve buried the body’s in sanctified soil and erected lavish tombstones over each. (Book Break: “You don’t need to be sanctified if you’ve got a good car.”) I grieved until I died. Pain. How do YOU measure pain? Did you mete out (more or less) the same amount of pain that you received?

Ya wanna compare bull-shite? Ya gonna go Sinatra wit yer regrets or build yer own personal savior wit ‘em?

If I’m not ashamed of my diagnoses, yes, antithetically, I’m proud?

I don’t know about that.

[~Christina]

Do you feel better getting all that out of you're head ?

Originally Posted by ElsaMars

I enjoy your untamed thought train. I hope these truths you have found provide you comfort. I don't mean to be insulting but I wonder if you are a bit on the manic side perhaps?

I can understand much of what you are trying to say and other parts not so much. I think it's tempting to judge how others view or treat their illness. How much comfort they receive from diagnosis or listing their meds and symptoms. It's human to feel we have it figured out while the rest of the poor souls are out there doing it ALL wrong. Recently I'm understanding how far from objective the truth can be......how my version of it and how the world makes sense to me personally is very different from the next person. I'm always looking for people who have all the answers.....I'd love to find them and be guided.......I've met lots of people who acted like they knew it all or thought they did but once I dug deeper I was disappointed because my truths are personal and nobody seems to have this crap figured out. My mental illness is not all I am but it is a big part. That might be wrong to some but until the creator of the universe comes down and shines a light on a messiah, I just see opinions, not universal truths.

No, no mania, no. No sure answers; nothing’s certain ‘cept death, gurlee. I am god-damned sure, though, that truth flip-flops ‘cross these multi-verses and we’re all a Merry Gang of Pilates asking, “what is truth?”

Why does it feel manic? Because I’m wiggling myself at conventional convictions - giving my c-finger Louis to grave notions. Haberdashery.

No, no mania, no. Teasing. Playful. Opaque. Wordplay, foreplay. Four play.

Yer either on the bus or off the bus. On the road or off-road. Either/Or, Sören.

I became so absorbed in myself-as-illness that I forgot that I was funny and smart and kind (not my words). Eighteen (18) years of grief. Nine (9) or eleven (11) - depending on the method used to count - years of institutionalization.

What I want to say I dare not say. Not in this crowded theatre.

But, I will say that if my response to physical symptoms was on par with my response to my mental symptoms I would have died 23-years-ago.

I’m quite keen on life. Grab me nutter-butters and Call Me A Soldier.

Originally Posted by ~Christina

Do you feel better getting all that out of you're head ?

What?

You’re head? You are head? Your. ‘Your Head.’

Goodness. Feel better? All that? “That” was hours and hours ago. Shite comes in, shite goes out. I am fortunate in that I have, and can retain, important and exigent ideas. I don’t sling “I have no idea” upon the wall often.

Now, I would have to be vain to believe that play held much gravity, right? Grave truths ain’t my bag, here. In other’s homes...

Turn. Counter-turn. Move in more ways than one. Even you, yesterday, you had to ask me.

Counter-culture. Hypergraphic.

They’re words; that’s all. Rotten taters. Pride/prejudice. I’m taking Pride for $500.

Originally Posted by ciderguy

No, no mania, no. No sure answers; nothing’s certain ‘cept death, gurlee. I am god-damned sure, though, that truth flip-flops ‘cross these multi-verses and we’re all a Merry Gang of Pilates asking, “what is truth?”

Why does it feel manic? Because I’m wiggling myself at conventional convictions - giving my c-finger Louis to grave notions. Haberdashery.

No, no mania, no. Teasing. Playful. Opaque. Wordplay, foreplay. Four play.

Yer either on the bus or off the bus. On the road or off-road. Either/Or, Sören.

I became so absorbed in myself-as-illness that I forgot that I was funny and smart and kind (not my words). Eighteen (18) years of grief. Nine (9) or eleven (11) - depending on the method used to count - years of institutionalization.

What I want to say I dare not say. Not in this crowded theatre.

But, I will say that if my response to physical symptoms was on par with my response to my mental symptoms I would have died 23-years-ago.

I’m quite keen on life. Grab me nutter-butters and Call Me A Soldier.

I can't tell if you're brilliant or bonkers. It's like you're saying something important but I didn't get the secret decoder ring in my box of cereal. I'm lost but it feels like I shouldn't be. In any case, I hope you are well.

[bioChE]

There is no secret decoder ring. I think what you see is what you get.

Originally Posted by bioChE

There is no secret decoder ring. I think what you see is what you get.

If this is the case, and I'm not just missing the mark then I think the OP is most certainly not well right now.

Cider, I hope you stay safe.

[*Laurie*]

"Dr. Bronner back from the dead"...I love it.

Originally Posted by ElsaMars

I can't tell if you're brilliant or bonkers. It's like you're saying something important but I didn't get the secret decoder ring in my box of cereal. I'm lost but it feels like I shouldn't be. In any case, I hope you are well.

Sweet thing, I’m just like you - at the crossroad twixt Brilliant & Bonkers, slithering toward the street light seeking Illumination from the Senior Service drunks, SW1, roger, that?

No Little Orphan, **** Tracy, decoding method, Roy Rogers. Free-flow?

The Proof is in the Plagiarism. Memories from my home to yours

Turing’s Syndrome. The Scandinavian Experiment. Licensed to Kill or Carry.

Conceal yourself, don’t get caught.

Allen, baby, why so jaded? Read HOWL without pause, let the word-river ride excite that sense; that sense that you will not name. The one that causes your shame.

Me? I’m fine.

Originally Posted by ElsaMars

If this is the case, and I'm not just missing the mark then I think the OP is most certainly not well right now.

Cider, I hope you stay safe.

Gosh - I’m fine!

Have you ever practiced the Black Art of Orienteering? Realigned yourself to True North? Every Map has a Legend, Michael. A Legend uses Symbols and Words.

I’m indulging my Love. That’s me in the Bull Pen. That’s me in the Corner.

Two sentences, two Legendary markings.

I hope you are ok. I don't really understand much of what you say in your responses but you've said some nice things about me I think and I thank you. Called me nice names.....am I the orphan? Are you giving me advise of some nature? If so, I thank you for taking the time. If writing about it all helps then please do so. It seems you have a lot on your mind.

Originally Posted by *Laurie*

"Dr. Bronner back from the dead"...I love it.

One gold crown!

I read the entirety sitting in a tent waiting out a snowstorm. I read it aloud to Nancy (today is her birthday!). We were 17-years-old, popping buttons to pass the time.

A freshly-laundered peppermint body. Yours, mine, ours.

Legend says that scent is our perfect memory sense.

We could do worse!

Originally Posted by ElsaMars

I hope you are ok. I don't really understand much of what you say in your responses but you've said some nice things about me I think and I thank you. Called me nice names.....am I the orphan? Are you giving me advise of some nature? If so, I thank you for taking the time. If writing about it all helps then please do so. It seems you have a lot on your mind.

No, the Orphan is Annie. Little Orphan Annie? Daddy Warbucks?

I am, golly yes, okay. Gosh, no, no advice!

The photograph, your writing: I have always been drawn to smart and attractive women. You might be spoiling me too much, love! I have a girlfriend - the same girl that I dated, um, 42-years ago. The Girl Left Behind. We have History and Peculiarities in Common.

Here’s a thought: magnetic poetry.

And, in closing, Google:

I feel such a sense of well-being,
The problems have come to be solved.
And what I thought was proper for battle
I see now is proper for love.