OK, this is a pic of a black dog I'd never shoot (even though it doesn't do her lovely eyes justice). Figured after the way I've dissed dogs, I should include a pic of a couple of dogs that I truly love, Rock Star & his big sis Ebbie, the dog who changed my mind about dogs. Rock Star is the canine equivalent of Lucky--as utterly lovable, cute and entertaining (and exasperating), but smarter.
Today's subtitle comes from a favorite Brit phrase referring to one being out of one's mind while still allowed to roam free of legal or medical restraint. It applies to roughly 90% of the English women I've known (and the ones it doesn't apply to know who they are ;-); there is a reason I've had a number of Brit boys in my life. American women are insane, but at least we're up front about it.
But enough about cultural differences.
"Completely mental"... Jim Jefferies brought that phrase back into my lexicon; it's not a phrase I'd ever used often, but like a lot of things that get stuck in the junkyard of trivialities that is my brain, it's been there. As I mentioned in yesterday's post, I'm struggling with accepting that I really am bipolar--that the original diagnosis was correct, and I'm going to be one of those lucky, lucky people who has to deal with recurring episodes in my life when the bipolar is pronounced and when it hides in the background. And that it is intimately tied to my artistic life.
"Completely mental" sums up why this idea is bringing me down like a sickly zebra under a pride of hungry lions. See, when the diagnosis is there and other people are aware of it, there is a label applied to you, and then come the dismissals. "Oh, she has problems." Followed by a knowing look.
Fights at home... yeah, I've had it thrown in my face that I was crazy because I had been diagnosed and was taking medication for it. Told that everything I was saying, every observation I had made, was invalid because I had a disorder and was under treatment.
Welcome to life in a working class Irish family--it's OK to be a drunk and swilling away your wages and destroying other lives and being a miserable, horrible, abusive piece of shit, but it's NOT OK to take responsibility for yourself and get help.
*slams head on the desk*
Even in "educated" circles, it's still a reason to belittle someone, still a reason to treat someone as less than worthy of being taken seriously. I hate it. I hate having my intelligence and psychological acumen dismissed, my ideas and aspirations dismissed, simply because I have a disorder that I have accepted and sought help for and been honest about.
Because I am honest about the shit I deal with. I know that as soon as any man even vaguely interested in dating/bedding me reads this, I will be out of the running. I know that. Because who wants to deal with a woman who is "completely mental"? Who wants to deal with someone who "has problems"? Who wants to deal with their own shit plus someone else's?
So why talk about it? Because I have to, I guess. Because I was taught to stand up and speak up. Because I have met too damn many people in this world suffering alone, unaware that they weren't alone in this. Because I know how I felt on Thursday, sitting in Starbucks, writing about how I was feeling, trying not to weep, and a friend, without asking, wrapped me up and held me because he understood completely how I was feeling.
Because I am tired of being misjudged and I hate that there are people in this world who inflict their disorder on others and never take responsibility for their own actions and responsibility to face and control their disorder, but feel it's completely OK to denigrate others for their efforts.
Yeah, I'm a judgmental person--I pass a LOT of judgments on others. What most people don't get, however, is the evaluation process that goes into it first. I watch how people treat others--I pay attention to all the details. And I don't give a pass unless you've earned it. I don't give myself any, either. (And yeah, I know, that may be part of the problem. Ah, well.) It may sound harsh, but at this point in my life, I don't have any room left for unnecessary pain. I don't need people who are going to inflict more pain than pleasure; what that means is if the shit you bring to the tables doesn't balance out with the quality you bring to the table, sorry, no time, no energy. I don't mind giving time to my friends; I don't mind listening when someone I love and care about is going through a hard time and needs a shoulder to cry on or an ear to bend whilst they vent. And I also don't ask for what I won't give--to anyone in my life, and I certainly don't want anything I haven't earned, be it loyalty, forgiveness, or a break.
People find that so hard to believe, especially men. I mean, why would I ask you for something I wouldn't give to you in return? Where is the fairness in that? Where is the justice, the correctness? Where are the ethics in that? It's just so damn weird. I don't get it.
Whatever. Onward, I guess.
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