Bipolar Bland


The fairies are farting; it’s foggy outside. Hell! The fairies must have decided to all pick their asses up and fart their way to Amsterdam – it’s really foggy. Can’t even see across the street. And this morning’s temp is a frigid 1 degree, so it’s freezing fog. Who the fuck pissed off the fairies?

Like a flaming arrow shot down from Heaven, minutes after signing off the internet yesterday my phone went off. A message from a friend: her internet is slow, but she’s thinking about me and sends lots of love. Just what I needed to hear. Didn’t need a long missive, just a hi and I’m thinking about you. I felt better immediately knowing someone out there cared.

My bro got the script printed up at the library (my printer is dead and the skeleton remains in the closet, waiting to go to MediaMarkt for recycling). The first draft got marked up with my pen: typos, that reference should be a different character, adjustments to timing. Somehow I just can’t do that final read through on the computer. I need a paper copy in my hands. I know: old fashioned. ‘Ouderwets’ in Dutch, if you’re interested. I’m old fashioned enough I had to find out the proper word for it and incorporate it into my vocabulary this early on. Ik ben ouderwets. So sue me. Anyway, got the second draft printed up and let my bro read it. Usually when he reads something I’ve tagged as a comedy, he laughs out loud at least once. Nadda. Of course, it’s a script and not a real story. They read completely differently. But it had me worried. Right up to the point when he talked to me about it. He said ‘it could go either way right now, a drama or a comedy, depending on the actors’. Bingo. That’s right where I was aiming for. Not the over the top silly situation comedy that Adam Sandler might do. And not the deadpan seriousness of British ‘black comedy’, either. Something that, depending on the actors and the director, could be very funny. That’s what a good script is supposed to do, right? Offer enough skeleton work to hang a play on, but not so much that the actors can’t greatly modify it with their performances. At least, that’s what I was taught. I suppose, like me, that’s old fashioned now.

Did my walking, and the stairs. You know, I KNOW the stairs are coming at the end. I KNOW it’s five sets. I even know, extremely well, what the view from the bottom of the stairwell looking all the way up looks like. Still. Every damned time I walk in the building I have to stand there at the bottom of the stairs, looking up. Cursing it. Getting a little dizzy thinking that yes, I’m going to climb up that bitch even tho I’m already pretty tired. Then I focus on the 8 steps in front of me. Fix my eyes on them. Take a deep breath, shift into low gear (for climbing), and lift my foot. Turn, up another 8. This isn’t so bad. Second set, start strong. I can do this. Turn, another 8. Start to feel the burn. Third set, panting. Take the first 8 slowly, deliberately. Turn. Oh, god. *pant, pant* Another 8. Fourth set: think about calling the elevator. Don’t be a wimp. Climb, climb, climb. Turn. My heart’s going to burst! Fifth set. Why do I keep doing this? C’mon, it’s just a little further. By the time I reach for the door that leads to my hallway, I’m in pretty bad shape. Panting and working hard to control my breath. Burning buns and thighs, so I walk a little funny. Sweating. A little red in the face.

Can’t imagine I’m ever gonna use the stair climber at the gym.

Looked ahead on the calendar. Told myself how important it is that I stick to my schedule. For the next several weeks I have to ensure I don’t fall into that monomania I get. I have to spread myself around, a little here, a bit there. School, swimming, gym, fysio, appointments with my rheumatologist, the theatre group, language cafés, blood work, and I want to see the new Dr. Strange film sometime in there, too. Writing amongst all that will be difficult. But I’ve gone back and forth on this: if I wait ’til my schedule cools down, chances are high my enthusiasm for the project will also cool down and it could be difficult for me to finish. And I do want to finish this. I want to stop hearing stuff like ‘let’s talk about that when you’re done with this‘ or ‘there’s still a lot you haven’t finished yet‘. I suppose I never really will stop hearing that. It’s a family thing, and the bro I live with is as ingrained with that as any member of my family. He who often reminds me of all that I HAVE finished. Yes, that drivel still comes out of his mouth.

Maybe that’s just what people say to people like me. I’m still reluctant to own bipolar, tho I include it in all my tags. My mind accepts it but it seems my soul won’t. Every day, I wake up into my ‘normal’. My normal for that day might be crying. My normal for another day might be superwoman mode. It is one, continuous thread for me. I know from the outside it looks haphazard. I’ve been told that. But there’s no discontinuity for me, no break in reality that makes me think one day my stuff is great and the next that I’m a pile of shit. That’s just my ‘normal’. I both love and hate myself. That simply gets reflected in my life. Am I extreme on either end? Probably. I was raised with the ‘if you’re going to do something, give it everything you’ve got’ so I guess I included my mood swings in that. Or maybe that’s where the bipolar kicks in.

Bipolar Extreme! And I’m not even extreme as some.

I’m more Bipolar Bland.


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