a new year is upon us and, this year, things will be different. I said the same thing last year and the year before that too. each year getting older. each year getting stiffer and more wrinkled. another year closer to death and I never want to die. I LOVE LIFE with all of it’s ups and downs and never ever want to “not be here.” that being said…it is inevitable. we all are born. we all grow up and then we all die. leaving loved ones behind the way loved ones, once, left us behind.
I am now fifty-three years old and I am still struggling to figure out life. my life. my family’s life. my dog’s life. I am now taking Zoloft and feeling better but I am also constantly tired and constantly bored. I get torn between going off my meds altogether and going back to my stimulants. why has this process of trying to figure out what mental illness I have and trying to figure out what meds to take been such a long process? forty years and counting. highs. lows. excitement and hope followed by doubt and despair. is this Bipolar? back to CAMH next week with hopes of getting a thorough diagnosis which will then help me get proper treatment. proper help. do I have a mental illness? is it made up? do I take it too seriously or not seriously enough? life was much easier when I was younger and getting drunk and fucking and fighting and getting arrested and then getting let out and doing the same thing all over again because I had nobody to answer to. nobody to love. nobody to love me. life was easier even with all it’s pain and even with all of my shame.
how did all of this happen? was I born this way? was it from the head injury I suffered when I fell off the balcony at The Heights Drive and was in hospital for three days with a concussion? was it from my Dad dying so suddenly? but if it was from my Dad dying then why was my brother not affected in the same way? was it from my Nana dying a month later? my Mom overdosing on tranquillizers a month after that and we were taken away for a month while my Mother attempted to recover? and did my Mom ever recover? was it from being molested by that old Greek man after a night of partying while lining up for Bruce Springsteen tickets? drinking? drugs? lack of love? lack of direction? lack of a Dad? lack of confidence? lack of stability? so many questions. very few answers. I’m fifty-three years old. still lost. still confused. still hopeful.
this year will be different. this year will be the year. this year will be action and less talk. this year will be filled with discoveries and commitments and discipline and excitement and exercise and creative endeavours and love. LOTS OF LOVE. LOVE. UNCONDITIONAL LOVE. is there such a thing? I hope so. always hope. hope. hope. hope.
I’m fifty-three years old and I am, now, beginning the journey of figuring out my life. one day at a time as they say in AA. I was there a few times too. always looking for answers. but maybe the answers are in the doing. the writing. the creating. the acting. BE ME.
It all started for me on March 23rd, 1967. I was born. we will end there for now. more to come. more to follow. more to learn. more to discover. more to write.
more to fix?
STOP FIXING AND START WRITING.
notanotherphony. 