swingin for the fences

 

there is no such thing as an original thought     –author unknown

 

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   Fully-functional people are a marvel can    kiss my ass.

In another 4 am stroke of genius, into my brain popped one of those “original” ideas or words I make up and smile myself back to sleep with. Only to arise at normal people time already suspicious, confirming with a quick ((0.19 seconds)) Googlstroke that my idea has been “invented” ((About 10,200,000)) times already.

 

No matter. Others may have coined the term, but they are just other silly, grasping kooks who don’t own it, either.  I am a blogger who wants to blog. I am a creative, semi-intelligent 48 year old human, who also has been living as a biP for years. Without meds. But also without much sustained success as a teen or adult.

So blog I will. About all thoughts, “bipolar”  as they may sometimes be. Bipolar Express. Because this is twisted and funny. Here at the Almost-50 juncture of my life, I have become rather laugh or die about things.

In the days of Jimi Hendrix it was called manic depression, remember?  Jimi Hendrix was a way cool dude.jimi

While secretly proud of just being alive, among a few other accomplishments,  I still want “success,” that is, getting comfortable enough in my own skin to just be who I am and run with it, till I’m done and I die.

This did not happen with regular  jobs I’ve held, such as waitress or  local news reporter, or, god bless us, teacher. These jobs, along with thousands of others, are for well-adjusted folks. Marvelous folks, putting it out there with a happy face on it, day-in, day-out.

Consistently positive, shiny people make me want to throw up in my mouth a little  get on with it and find a way to contribute, too.

I  get the strategy. Good vibes. Don’t worry, be happy.  Fake it till ya make it.  And yes, I do the whole diet-exercise-enlightenment thing till I am…well, blue.

Again.

It has taken me waaay too long to accept this deal about myself.  I’ve become  a whiz at The Two Year Marathon. I can hold my breath under water a long time. But inevitably, I have to run screaming, and crawl back under my rock for a spell. Back out, I am a great liar. At the local grocery store, out at the Farmer’s Market,  I weave tales of  adventure, learning, and suspense. Once I even employed crutches as a –crutch. Nasty accidents–especially the kind attached to chunks of settlement $$,  are super-handy for changes in course. Buy some time  and no one dares to ask questions.

And, No One ever really knows what the hell I’m up to. Important to the me, the Secret Weirdo.

However, I think this game has now played itself out. At home, and away.  “Away” isn’t far in a small hipster town. I am keenly aware of those hipsters, too! The ones who have their shit goin’ on while I peek at Netflix from under a blanket on the couch on any given night of the week(end).  The home team?  They’re ready to pitch me the meds.

So now what?

Be Real?  Where will that get me?