What am I?

I wrote this when I was first diagnosed. I already posted it back when I first started this blog. I have added a poem list in my sidebar. This poem was at the bottom of a long post so I am reposting it so it goes right to the poem when the link is clicked.

What am I?

Through the years my tears swelling,
mind-raping, my madness escaping.
Insane, inhumane. Sane, humane.
Hi. Low. Where to go.
I’m here today, what a boon.
Duality, Introspection,
Hyde’s erection, in my life. Strife.
What am I? Tears well, swell. Fell.
I feel creative. Free-ranging thought flowing.
Thoughts spinning, mind’s winning.
No sleep. Not one peep.
Bad judgment, money lost,
shopping spree, at what cost?
Needless, worthless, mirthless,
heedless, sleepless, reap less.
I can’t get up today.
Dark outside. Dread, drear, dead.
Thoughts keep running. Halt, stop.
I need the sun. Warmth, light.
Fog is thick, never knew I was sick.
Knew something was wrong, amiss.
Had to say sorry a lot.
Chemical embrace.
Where’s my ace? What is this place?
Insanity, let me free.
Journal now, to remember who I am, was.
I’m changing, mind’s rearranging.
Thought expanding, demanding.
Am I babbling yet? Just turn me off. Click.
What am I? Tears well, swell. Fell.
Paranoid. Dreaded void. Only grows deeper.
Are they out to get me? Ha. Right?
Never thought I was crazy, figured I was just lazy.
Procrastination was a way of life. Rife.
Friends wane. Time fades.
It always rains, (Autumn,) then comes Winter.
Cabin fever, snow blind. Can’t hide.
Get me off this ride. Sliding down, losing grip.
Who am I? Tears well, swell. Fell.
Letters backwards now. Ha.
Never knew I was crazy,
thought I was just lazy. Who cares! Right?
Anger rolls. Relationships halt.
Is everyone so incompetent? Yes? Yes!
Or is it just me? Or is it I?
Irritation, aggravation, agitation,
Can’t you see, what they’re doing to me?
The train’s jumped the tracks, how to get back?
Never realized my mind’s eye was blind.
I’m lost in myself, the corners’ so dark and different.
My eyes can’t open anymore. I’m tore.
I’m babbling? Idea dabbling, rambling,
brain’s scrambling. See?
What am I? Tears well, swell. Fell.
Manic Monday. That’s how it went? Right?
Anger’s back and he’s livid.
Always just thought I was just moody.
Maybe I am anyway. Today, or for life? Rife.
Everyone thinks I’m arrogant, ignoring them.
I’m not. merely losing focus.
Thoughts spinning, internal commotion.
Hocus-pocus I lost focus.
What was I discussing? Please stop fussing,
it seems so loud. It’s getting crowded in there.
It’s tragic, yet magic. Ha. Right?
I haven’t slept for days.
Brain’s swelling, mind’s rebelling.
Fog’s thinning, manic’s winning.
Sleep wanes, invention gains.
Darkness falls again. I can’t win.
Sadness ensues. I lose.
What a ruse. Madness, rues.
Thought these pills were supposed to work.
It’s just a quirk, Chemical Imbalance, if you like?
Have to get you regulated. Sedated.
So you don’t get aggravated.
Treat my family right.
There’s the light.
Spring’s here. Isn’t it queer,
that, that’s enough to make me happy?
Snow’s melting, thoughts pelting.
Looney, Lunacy, so lonely. Ha. Right?
Where’s my head at? Did I forget that?
Alienation, starvation, indignation,
I need a summation, of my illness.
See if a pattern develops,
before darkness envelopes, my life. Strife.
Mental swell-ups, flare-ups, relapse. Collapse.
Back on Earth, the followers are happy, laughy.
Why, oh why, ain’t I? Normalcy please.
I need release. Thoughts never cease.
Thoughts are strange. In need of change.
The gallows’ wire, Hangman’s ire,
no, I’m not there yet. Ha. Right?
There’s the light!
Summer’s here. Ain’t it queer,
that I’m so happy to see the sun.
Feel the warmth on my cheek.
I can see the motes in the rays,
hear them calling better days.
Fog’s lifting, thinning, I’m winning.
Time to get out this bed, clear my head.
The thoughts are coming so fast.
What was I talking about?
Switchback. Brain-ache. Numb pain.
Zombie, lethargy, chronic fatigue,
thinking in mud, I’m a dud.
That’s how it feels today.
Insomnia calls, knothole walls,
descrying shapes, faces, all the flaws.
Counting sheep sucks.
Closing my eyes opens my mind.
Please keep it down in there.
It’s ugly in here. In need of repair. Ha. Right?
Scenario after Scenario,
pours forth from my pillow.
Make it stop, sleeping pills pop.
Sweat pours forth from my pores,
as my mind soars.
Who am I? Tears well, swell. Fell.
Thoughts come so fast I can’t keep up.
The babbling brook overflows.
That’s how it goes. Ha. Right?
Do I really need to get up today? Can I?
Info slows and so do I.
Humiliation, insubordination, contagion,
pestilence of my mind, bane of my brain.
Switching quicker now, I realize to my dismay.
Who am I? Tears well, swell. Fell.
Try to trick my mind, to no avail,
mood music and TV wail.
Still can’t sleep. Dark shrouded lids,
portray my defiance of the sandman.
The epic nightly struggle for supremacy.
He must win in the end. Hopefully soon.
The raving raven raves and smiles.
Smiles that defiant smile. Did I forget to smile?
I’m now close to the grand defile. I won’t let go!
Pride and resolve must be absolved,
before I fall. Sleep or death, my last breath.
Who am I? Tears well, swell. Fell.
Neurotransmitters, exacting in their discontent.
Never knew what they were, this week’s a blur.
Bipolar. What a wondrous euphemism.
Disorder, chaotic, Catatonic. Ha. Right?
What am I? Tears well, swell. Fell.
Bipolar.
What am I?
What am I?

How I Lost God – Which Turned Into a Long-Condensed Story of My Dysfunctional Life: Part 4

We then moved to another town during the middle of my 4th grade year. It was a whole new experience for me. I went from living in a city to a poorer school district. Plus, now I lived outside of town in the country. I was never well off no matter where I lived, (we were always lower middle class,) it was just that the school system was better; not that I utilized it or realized it until I left. I was the only white kid on my bus. My sister stopped riding early on because of our mistreatment by the black kids. The high school rode on the same bus as the elementary students. I would get thumped in the head, picked on, intimidated, and called racial slurs. I stuck it out and soon gained the respect of my bus mates with my humor. Sometimes it’s good to be funny. After that no one ever messed with me at school because all of my black friends stood by me even when I wasn’t around. Not that I was ever violent; I always had a way of using humor to quell any antagonism. But even when that didn’t work no one wants a piece of you when it is about to get out of hand and from nowhere half a busload of kids of all ages pops up and asks if anyone has any beef with me. It’s weird how circumstances change: one minute they hate; the next they are my brothers and sisters. Yes, sisters, there were actually a few chicks on my bus that even the guys didn’t mess with. I guess I can say one thing positive that I did get from my father – or than his genes, OK, maybe not the BP one – was his respect for all races. He had many black friends while I was growing up, as did I from that year on. If you said the N-word in my house, it probably would have been the last word you ever said. The evil bastard for some reason had ethics in that department. Anyone and everyone was accepted in my house. I am thankful of that at least. Back to the story. I started afresh, but I brought along my evil ways. I was right back in trouble because of my mouth, disruptiveness, and class antics. In the 6th grade I continued getting into trouble as usual. This time when I sat with a newly hired principle, she said that she had never heard a kid my age speak so articulately and give such rational excuses for misbehavior. She said that she thought she knew what was going on. She thought that I was bored with my curriculum. She had people come in a give me an IQ test. I tested so highly that she immediately removed me from my regular classes and put me in a small class of academically gifted students. I’m sure those teachers were glad to see me go. My dad seemed proud of me for a change. Can you image the rebel, who was against all authority, being put into a class of rich, white, preppie, nerds? I still remember them asking what my dumbass was doing there right in front of me. I was the epitome of wrongness in their eyes and opposite of what they considered themselves to be. Hell, I was the kind’a kid that picked on them for God’s sake. They were truly flabbergasted, appalled, and threatened by my mere presence. The teacher told them that I had scored higher than most of them to get into her class. It was an oddly structured class with the highest quality curriculum. I learned so much that second half of the year. I still don’t find it fair that those few privileged students had access to a better education than everyone else. I actually became friends with those kids and with their acceptance I didn’t get in trouble again at school that year. But as luck would have it, I met a kid named Rick across the street from my house that year. He was a year older than I and he got me into some bad things. I didn’t see him a lot because he was rich and he went to a top-tier private school in Raleigh and had to commute daily. His mom had her own business in Raleigh and they didn’t get home until like 9 pm every night. But every day that we weren’t in school, we were together. I lived with them from Friday night until I went home on Sunday evening. We started going into work with his mom on Saturdays and hanging out in the mall that was across the highway from her workplace. He taught me how to shoplift and not get caught. We began shoplifting all kinds of things, but mostly clothes. I actually had the nicest school clothes ever starting that next fall.

How I Lost God – Which Turned Into a Long-Condensed Story of My Dysfunctional Life: Part 3

Once I hit NC I became a total piece of shit. Yes, at 5 year’s old. I now know that it was me acting out to the abusive home environment; my way of coping. Shit, if I was going to get beat at home for nothing, why not be bad at school. I got attention from kids because I was disruptive and the class-clown. I got suspended from school at least once every year from kindergarten until I quit in 9th grade – most years I was not allowed at school for weeks or months. I got expelled from 3 schools – that is where you are never allowed to go there again, at least not that year. I had to live with relatives and friends so I could go to a different school district. My records always went with me, and anything that happened, it was always blamed on me, rightly so in most cases I will admit. I now feel sorry for all those teachers. Shit, once a teacher hit me in the head with a teacher’s addition math book, which made a pencil that I was holding point-up, impel me deep into my upper-lip, and cause stitches. Hell, I was only a 2nd year 2nd grader at that time. I failed 2nd grade the first time due to not being able to read on a third grade level, due to my incompetent parents that wouldn’t read with me. OK, that and for bad grades due to getting in so much trouble. You see, when you’re suspended you aren’t usually allowed to make up that work and you get 0’s on all of that work. And there is no bringing up grades with tons of 0’s let me tell ya. If I have a 100% on one paper and a 0% on the next, that is only a 50% average, and that damn sure ain’t passing. Could you imagine me not having the ability to read proficiently? I can’t. Sheer neglect. I felt ashamed because everyone that I knew was in a grade higher than me. I don’t think that I ever truly recovered from that.

By the 4th grade even my dad gave up on me and told me as much. He told me that there was no reason to waste his time trying to discipline me anymore and that I was a waste of space. I received my last spanking when I broke into or Elementary School that summer, which was closed down for restoration. I was hanging with an 8th grader. I obviously got caught. The police threatened to send me away, but come on, where do you send a 9 year old! They put in cuffs and took me down town in the back of the cop car. I roamed the streets with any free time to not have to go home and my parents didn’t care as long as I got home 15 min. after the streetlights came on. I smoked my 1st cigarette at 5, which my best friend Jason and I stole from his mom.

How I Lost God – Which Turned Into a Long-Condensed Story of My Dysfunctional Life: Part 2

While living in Ohio, where his parents lived, when I was 3 or 4, we once went to visit his mother, my Grandmother. It was summer and I was dressed in long pants and a full-sleeve shirt. She knew something was amiss. She made me undress right in front of them and I was black and blue over my whole body. She berated my father and told my mother that she would pay to send her back to NC to her family if she would leave him. She didn’t. She said that it was the first time he had ever gotten out of hand and beaten me, but I really don’t know for sure. I never remember getting abused to that extent after that. In fact I don’t remember that incident, but my grandma told me about it and my mom verified it to me. I kind’a hate my mom, other than the unconditional live that I can’t help, for being so weak and allowing my father to mistreat her, but especially for not thinking of us first. I have never witnessed him hit her to this day, but my mom’s family thinks he has; mental abuse is bad enough. They knew him back when they first got together and when I was too young to remember; before he moved her to Ohio to isolate he from them. She has always stuck up for him no matter what he does. My sister took care of me most of the time while we lived in Ohio and she was only 7 year’s old when we left. My parents were always gone all hrs of the night bowling or drinking with their friends. Sometimes earlier on we did have baby-sitters. My sister and I were always terrified of the house because a man had died in the basement, which is why they got a good deal on it in the first place. We were all right alone until it got dark. Then we stayed away from the kitchen because that was where the basement door was. We peeked in the kitchen a lot just to make sure it was still shut. One afternoon when I was 4 or 5, I was helping my sister put the chain back on her bike in the kitchen. Like the kid that she was, she started peddling as soon as the chain was on, which just happened to be before my fingers were clear. My pinky went around through the sprocket. It was split wide open with the meat and skin hanging. It was black with grease. She had to call the bowling alley and get my parents to come home from their drinking, or him at least his. I never have seen mom drink, but I think she did back then. I remember screaming and crying and my sister actually being motherly for a change as we waited for them to get home. I had to get stitches that night and a nurse gave me a soft Snoopy doll with a zippered compartment in the back. I slept with that dog for years until it fell apart. I required stitches again that same year. At a neighbor kid’s birthday party, his older brother and a friend put me on their house’s roof because I was apparently pestering them. They wouldn’t let me down. I cried but they just laughed, so I jumped. I didn’t break anything but I fell into a pile of boards and a nail cut the top of my scalp wide open. They suddenly showed some concern and took me into the house where the parents were all partying. I still remember all those women’s faces. My parents didn’t have a lot of money and my dad tried to take care of it himself for a few hours before he realized that it just wasn’t going to stop bleeding and I wasn’t ever going to stop crying. I got shots and stitches that day. Shortly before I moved when I was 5, I almost got kidnapped walking alone to school with my same-age friend Danny. A van pulled up behind us in a parking lot right beside school and started calling to us to come there. We said no and started to run. We were taught that at school. The side door opened and a man jumped out and chased us before we had even made it a few steps. He chose and grabbed one of us and luckily it was Danny. I never stopped running or looked back and was inside the school within seconds as I remember it. I told the teacher what had just happened and that it was a van and its color, which I don’t now recall. I kind’a remember talking to the cops too, but I’m not sure if that was a real memory or not. They were caught sometime that same day and Danny was recovered, I think it was within 2 hrs or so. I don’t know If they did anything to him. Oh yea, almost forgot, I was molested by a 13-year-old neighbor girl when I was 5. (The same great family of kids that put me on the roof.) Thanks for leaving me with only my sister to watch out for me; I really appreciate that mom and dad. I still remember feeling the strong urge to pee while she fondled and made me rub myself against her genitals. I don’t really think it affected me mentally, but hey what does a 5 year old know. Maybe it was why I was so sexually active as a teen. I don’t know how many times she did it, I only remember her dad catching us and how mad he was. Hey one solace; at least it wasn’t a guy. My 5th year was pretty eventful and traumatic for a little kid. Luckily I lived through it. We moved to NC in the middle of my 5th year.

How I Lost God – Which Turned Into a Long-Condensed Story of My Dysfunctional Life: Part One

As I read your blogs I find that most of you have God in your lives to help you through the bad times. I wish I had God. I used to know God when I was young. It would be nice to have someone stronger than you, that through faith in Him, you could lay your problems before and He would help support your weight and carry you until you could once again hold your own. I wish I had that. You see, God and I don’t have a good relationship anymore. We have lost each other somewhere. Hell, I don’t know if I even believe in Him at all anymore. I really feel that He isn’t out there any longer; at least not for me anyways. Put it this way, I want God in my life. Man I wish he were here when I needed Him, but He’s not in my grasp any longer. I truly wish I had my wife’s infallible faith, yet not by the means in which her and her family received theirs. When she was a kid her older sister had a rare type of cancer in mid-childhood. After a long struggle they were told that the chemo didn’t work and ultimately were told that she wouldn’t make it threw the night. Everyone, I think, gave up hope except her mom and her strong faith in God. The next morning she was totally healthy and she no longer had cancer. Still to this day she doesn’t. They all learned that He was real that day. But my life didn’t guide me towards an undeniable miracle to solidify my Childhood faith. I lost mine. I think my father’s relationship with God has destroyed my faith. I’m not one of those people that place blame on others for my flaws, but in this case I guess maybe I am. Let me explain. My father is actually a preacher. He wasn’t always, but he is now. The thing is, my father has always been a mean, evil person inside, or at least he used to be. You know, I think that in my subconscious as a teen, my mind decided if God could love him and let him represent Himself to the flock, which we all are, that God himself mustn’t truly exist. I am currently still on the fence with this one. I don’t know if I actually believe that he is out there or if I’m an unwilling atheist. What a horrible word. My elderly grandmother would jerk me up by the ear if see read this and likely move up here the 1000 miles and pray at the foot of my bed nightly until my soul was cleansed and I changed my views. I wouldn’t put it past her. I wouldn’t want to see the tears that I would cause her.

I was raised in church you see. My mom has always been deeply religious, as were her parents, my grandparents. We were a close family. A lot like a stereotypical southern black family, which are very spiritual, keep all their kin close, and would support and do anything for their family. I miss that. I think our family’s deep spirituality and tight family structure stems from both my grandparents being children of immigrants and their parents’ strong beliefs that they brought with them to this country. My grandma’s parents where Turkish and my Grandpa’s father was from Spain and I’m not totally positive but I think his mother was French. My dad’s heritage is Scottish, Irish, English, and German. So as you can see I am a very multi-racially faceted person. Imagine all that rolled-up into a dark complexioned causation, with brown hair and blue eyes. Weird, but it’s me. My wife’s parents actually thought I was half Black or Mexican when they met me, especially after they saw my mother for the first time.

Anyways, I digress. More than 30 of us would show-up at my grandparents’ house and head to the Baptist church together. My dad never went to church and actually talked shit about it in front of us every chance he got. We all would then met back up along with a ton of other relatives after church and eat and visit one another. We were really close. It was like a family reunion every week. Growing up, my parents weren’t there for us, my mom’s family always was, but my parents acted as though my half-sister and I were holding them back from the things they wanted to really do. He is my real dad and my sister’s step-dad. They left us alone often when we were young. My sister was 2 ½ years older than me and took care of me most times, although she was very hateful and treated me like shit most of the time. She once purposely handed me a pan of hot grease and told me to put it in the sink and turn the water on, when I was every young, and laughed as I screamed when I was burned. I still carry a few small, discolored scars on my side, because like most small kids I hated to wear shirts. At least she fed me anyways. My mom was nice to us, but she just was very neglectful. Here’s a small example of how much they really cared about me. They only have 4 pictures total of me growing up: The 1st pic I am 2 or 3, standing by a merry-go-round; the 2nd I am also very young posing on my grandma’s porch with my sis and 2 cousins, all of us dressed in our Sunday church clothes; the 3rd is a middle school pic that actually has proof stamped on it. They didn’t even buy my school pictures. It was the one they send home so your parents can see what they will look like if they actually bought them; and the 4th is a charcoal portrait of my early teen visage done at a flee-market. The rest of my family own lots of pictures of me. It never really hurt me or bothered me until my wife and I first got together, back before we were married, and she asked my mom to show her my baby pictures. I had never really thought much about it until we left that night and my wife told me that it wasn’t normal.

Quick Facts: I was born in Charleston SC. At the Naval Base Hospital. My father was based there and it was where they met. Somewhere and somehow around that area anyways. He got out and moved us to his home state of Ohio when I was 1 year old. Most of my Mom’s family all relocated to NC while we lived in a small town there in Ohio. I spent most of my prepubescent summers living with different relatives to get away from my home life after we moved to NC. After growing up and talking will these different relatives, a few revealed that they had thought long and hard about trying to adopt me and raising me as their own, but in the end I always ended back up at home at the end of those loving summers. I spent most of my life when I was home and in the house, in my room, where I drew and read fantasy novels and lived in the fantasy world that I created in my mind. I have always been very artistic like most bipolar people seem to inherently be. My children both have my drawing ability, although my daughter really excels with her talent.

My dad was a very abusive man. I was beat daily for arbitrary minor things with slaps, punches, and belts. My dad once picked me up by my hair right off the ground and punt-kicked me in the ass into the house (hell, maybe it was football Sunday and he wanted a try-out with the Bears,) because I passed the hedge that constituted the boundary to our yard, because he told me not to leave the yard. I was one foot passed it standing on the sidewalk talking with my best friend at the time Jason. I didn’t men to leave the yard. I think I was 7 or so at that time. We both talked about it many times while growing up. I don’t even remember the beating that day, but the kick stays with me always, probably because it was done in front of my friend and humiliated me. We joked that it was why I had a cowlick in the back. He was even more mentally and verbally abusive. When I was growing up my dad was a biker and a drug dealer. He never had anything nice to say to any of us, my mom included. I really don’t know why she stayed, other than I can now see that she had a very low self-esteem. If we brought home a C on our report-cards we were spanked and grounded. Who cares about bringing home good grades, right? He was going to find a reason to slap me around that day anyways. I’m not looking for empathy here; I’m just trying to explain why my adolescent mind decided to hate God for loving this man. He is a big man – 6’4’’ – and has always used bullying tactics and intimidation to get his way even after becoming a preacher. He actually lost a few churches due to his abrasive demeanor and hate of anyone disagreeing with him. I think he is PB honestly. He has just recently finally went to a therapist and is on some sort of meds. How could you make it to 53 year’s old before you realize that you need help? The only person that had the balls to ever stand-up to this man other than me later in life, was my wife. He treated my kids and her like shit a few times too many and she washed her hands of him. I still visit and take the kids over to see him, but he isn’t allowed in my house any longer. My mom comes over to visit and often he is with her, yet must remain out in the car in the street. She said that through God she forgave him recently to get the hate that was weighing heavily on her heart, but she will never forget or give him another chance to mistreat her again. Therefore he still isn’t allowed over and I support her on this. As you already know, we split-up when a big argument over this issue escalated and I threw a can at her. You don’t fuck with my wife and especially not her kids.

He cheated on my mom at least once that I know of, back when I was a child and they split-up for a few days as I remember. I remember my mom pulling up on them with my sister and I in the car and trying to run him over. I recollect her screaming in rage and us screaming in fear. I recall that time slightly even though I was only 4 or 5 at the time. At that young age you can usually only recollect traumatic or very strong events, and for that powerful experience or emotion, it makes it into your long-term memory. My mom and sister along with her friend and her kids went to an Amusement Park and I was made to go with my father to his mistress’ house during this small and only split-up. I still remember this lady talking to me in a coddling voice and playing Rubber Ducky on the record player for me because I was so distraught over knowing that my sister was riding a roller coaster at the time. I still have never ridden a roller coaster. We had planned to go to Disney World last year before my wife’s unfortunate work injury. Anyways, we then moved from Ohio to NC, where my mom’s family lived – I’m guessing so they could make a new start after the adultery. This was probably a blessing in disguise, because it brought me for the first time to an extended family that loved me and always showed and meant it, and took me away from my isolated world of neglect and hate.

Prelude to My Life

I will start posting a very long and in-depth piece today. It is way too long to put into one post. I will divvy it up in many small posts. I said at the start of this blog that at some point I would discuss my growing years. Well, that time is here. You will likely lose respect for me by reading this, but hey, did I really have anyone’s respect anyways? I will say that I left a lot as innuendo, just alluding to many facts because some things are so intense or foul that I didn’t want to repeat them in-depth. But you will get the gist early on that I was a very depressed and self-destructive person growing up. That I was a kid that you would dread seeing hanging-out with your child. You will see that even though I was shit most often, I did still have good heart occasionally. And the positive is how I got away from my early troubled existence to where I am currently at in my life and how well my family is doing despite how I was raised. If you ever have any questions because I failed to elaborate enough on any topic, do feel free to ask. No question will hurt me. I actually have found during the writing of my upbringing that it has proved therapeutic; some things, I really didn’t know had lived in the dark corners of my mind all these years. This post started out with me trying to understand how I had lost God in my life, but as I began to write, I came to realize it was much deeper than I had originally thought. It turned into telling my whole life story.

Tid Bits

Growing up I always was afraid of the dark. I’m guessing it was because I had such a vivid imagination. My mind was skilled and morbidly demented enough to envision all the worst things that could be lurking in the dark I guess. I would get out of bed and turn the light back on every time I awoke. I also sleep with me eyes partially open so dreams seem to fade into my immediate surroundings allowing the creatures of my mind to stalk me. Throughout my life I have always had shades or hooded entities torment my dreamworld, chasing me but never quite catching me. When these dreams became frequent I often didn’t sleep until the dawn’s first rays came through my bedroom window. But I haven’t had these dreams in months now. The dark doesn’t really affect me anymore, except the occasional eerie twinge that spontaneously creeps up at times. I just push it away and remember that nothing bad has ever happened in the darkness in my 32 years and all seems right in the world again.

For those that have read all my posts, you know that I live in my own fantasy world. I need escape from the mundane world. I always have an obsession that occupies my thoughts. I don’t find that to be unhealthy, except when I become totally enthralled and become excessively introverted, thus neglecting my family and waking life. My mind is always turning. I am always thinking. My life isn’t bad but I always need more in it. I am never sated with just living. I need something that is always right out of my grasp. I never feel whole. So a book, RPG game, poker, internal fantasy realm, art, crafts, and so on, helps to feed that void that can never truly be filled. I honestly think it is a symptom of our disorder. Our minds are wired differently and I think that we require those escapes to cope with our internal struggles against the dark-side of our illness that wants to depress and harm us. Yet we must remember to compromise and balance our time as to not negligent the ones we love, all the while navigating that inner crevasse that threatens to consume us.