(3) You Call it Bipolar-I Call it MSD- Too Late

You Call it Bipolar- I Call it MSD-Whatever

Too Late

If there were one element about mood spectrum disorder that I feel merits more discussion than any other, it is the disparity with which I, and others, view the world.  I can never be sure if I am seeing the same things that Annie-or another-is seeing.  We view the same universe, but I now find that I am occasionally in need of some assistance, when it comes to deciphering certain events.

One example that comes to mind occurred in February, and effectively eliminated blogging as an option for me.  It involved another blogger, a person who wrote a piece one day, in which she accused “someone” of stealing her work, or her words, or maybe even her soul, I was never quite sure.  She went on to say all sorts of dastardly things about how someone had “stolen her Cheetos.”  

Because I do not use a moniker, but use my name and picture when I visit other sites, I felt as though her words reflected more on me, than on some anonymous blogger, who could never be identified.  She never did explain at whom-or for what reason-she had written the piece.  Where I got into trouble, was that I could not let it go.  As I read the comments that others left on the piece, they expressed the same universal concern: I hope it is not I to whom you are referring.

I felt as though the whole experience were an expression of an ego gone wild, at the expense of some innocent bystanders.  Was this the illness speaking?  I must conclude that it was, even if I feel that the original piece was unfair and made me feel defensive.  It may even have made others feel the same way, but they got over it.  I did not, could not, and remain incapable of “getting over it.”  

So this is what I mean by seeing the world in a different manner.  I feel compelled to not only take umbrage at perceived injustices, but to cling to my stance, no matter what details materialize, that indicate I am about to take a long walk, off of a short pier.  I pursue the matter, using words and logic to make a point, even if the point is dull and innocuous to others.  

I take matters further than what I used to, and further than others take them in the first place.  I may sit down to write out a letter of explanation, with the intention of sending “I” messages, and end up making it personal.  Then I justify the whole exchange because I feel that the original affront validates my negative reaction, leaving me with the need to make an apology.  The trouble with written words is that they are tangible, and remain there on the paper, shouting out with authority, when I wish they would just shut the heck up.  At least when I write stuff down, I have had some time to reflect, unlike being in a verbal war, during which I have gotten into trouble in the past.  “Think first” is a concept that suddenly resembles a foreign language, with no translation available until it is far too late.

“He who hesitates is lost,” my father used to say, but he who leads the charge, occasionally finds that there are no followers, because he is charging into a void, which others can clearly perceive and avoid.  That does present some problems.  But the nature of this illness is that charging forward is standard operating procedure, and the best I can do is hope that some good may come out of it.

At this moment I am jubilant because I have regained the strength in my legs over the past couple of weeks, and believe that the lethargy which has plagued me all winter, may be on summer sabbatical.  I was over at my mom’s weed-eating this morning for a four-hour block of time.  I didn’t necessarily feel as though I were twenty again, but I didn’t feel seventy, either, which is where my legs have been.

But they’re back, and leading the charge, because he who hesitates, misses dinner.