I had a bit of an epiphany a few days ago. I have decided to become one of those “sensitive men of the nineties”. You know the sort, all touchy-feely with their Sarah McLachlan cds and black loafers; spreading sunshine and bad philosophy wherever they may roam. What the hell, I may even get a beret. A big flaming red one.
Well, maybe not the beret.
I am however, doing what I can to stop bottling things up. I have worked hard these last few years convincing myself that bad was good that it honestly takes a good deal of effort now to experience reality… how fucked up is that? After all, that is the basis of our humanity, isn’t it? When you stop being honest with yourself, it’s like dying from a thousand little cuts. On their own they don’t amount to much, by the time you see what is happening, it is too late to stop the bleeding. Ten plus years of a failed marriage served well to teach me that. After all that you would think I would at least know what I am about… The reality however is that I do a hell of a lot better with other peoples issues than my own, I always have. Maybe that's because my own are a bit of a mystery to me. Plus, all of the time spent solving everyone else’s problems gives me a multitude of good excuses to not deal with my own. Messiah complex, anyone?
This is actually significantly harder than I envisioned it would be when I hatched this little plan. It’s like I have some sort of emotional atrophy… everything is intact; I just have to learn what they do all over again. And the more they flare up, the less in control I am… my nerve endings exposed, raw… the slightest sensation exaggerated, amplified.
According to my doctor, I have Bi-polar disorder. He may well be correct, the hedonist in me doesn’t like this pain and wants to quit; but the self-loathing I have perfected over the last thirty-odd years won’t let me avoid it. In my world, that’s about as polarized as it gets.
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