Pale Little Blog in a Sun-Drenched World

I just spent twenty minutes trying to sign into this website and access my blog. The password slipped my mind, and my computer crashed when I tried to set another one. Isn't that riveting! So now I'm on here and I've completely forgotten what I set out to post on here a half hour ago. I'm sure that it was in line with the every other jejune, insipid trifle on here.

Regarding this blog, I have a bit of a conundrum. Actually, the problem is with me, but it is evident on Zeitgeist Expatriate. I'm not right in the head, which is rarely a problem when it comes to writing; certainly not for a feeble scribbler like me. What concerns me is that I bounce between two mindsets, and they are not complimentary. Depression robs me of the ability to take an interest in anything. And my specific pathology in this area includes a strong desire to fling myself in front of a bus. I don't because I also find no activity worth doing. And nothing is funny, interesting or compelling in any way. And the anxiety is merciless. My muscles are sore from tensing myself up. Naturally, I almost never post anything when I'm in detached state, although it does inform my general attitude.

So on one side is all this depression, ennui, self-loathing and all that shit. On the other side (or at the other pole, as the case may be), I find that I read everything I can get my fat little hands on and write emails, posts, letters and even short fiction. So many things are funny and moving and interesting. I look forward to calling a friend just to talk about anything, and I have no problem telling them how much they mean to me. Most importantly, I'm not anxious or so ensconced in self-hatred that I want to eradicate my existence to avoid the pity and disgust of those I care about. Instead, I almost feel normal. Like a failure, perhaps, but a commonplace one.

Obviously, I'm describing bipolar disorder, something I'm diagnosed with along with borderline personality and post-traumatic stress disorders. So when it comes to this blog, I'm worried that my entries are of interest only to me. My logic is that hypomania lowers my standards for what is funny or interesting...or simply worth posting. That I have a strange sense of humor doesn't help matters.

What keeps me going is the knowledge that this is just a blog. If someone were paying me to write, the guilt and self-doubt would be insurmountable. I hope this makes sense, because if it does, it fairly-well illustrates my affliction. Not that you should care, but just in case you do. Every one of my friends has told me that they enjoy this blog. Usually they compliment my intelligence. It makes me feel good, but I know that it isn't true. That they are saying those things because they are my friends. It's appreciated, though. And the blog is fun to write.

Incidentally, I'm not really manic or depressed right now. I'm sort of in the middle. As I sit here grinding my teeth and anxious as hell, I wonder if I'll ever be better. There was a time when I could say, "hello" to a neighbor without my heart racing. A time when mental illness didn't have me avoiding contact with people out of fear. And fear of what? Sometimes I feel like a vampire in a place where the sun never sets. Existing primarily in the shadows and unseen.

A fat little vampire wearing glasses.