Since my early pre-teen years, I knew that something wasn't right. I just always thought it was me. I wasn't right. In fact, I was just plain wrong. My hair was wrong, my skin was wrong, my eyes, my nose, the way I walked, talked, laughed, behaved, and felt inside my body. Overall, I was simply the wrong organism to be existing on this planet. I thought that I must've been switched with a human soul at the moment of my cosmic birth.
As I grew, my feelings only intensified, and grew into a deep paranoia. Everywhere I went, I could feel the eyes of strangers watching me, awed and disgusted by this creature with whom they were forced to share the Earth. Every whisper that floated through the air, was about me. Every chuckle, was a private joke at my expense. Family, and the people I called 'friends' were merely tolerating my presence in their lives. And I was certain that someone, somewhere, was constantly plotting to disrupt every attempt I made at normalcy, and were probably even recruiting every other person who did, might, or would someday know me.
The years went on, and I came to accept my fate. I assimilated into society, and at times, I truly felt that some miraculous change had occurred. I dared to dream that I had been occasionally accepted, and could lend myself to the possibility of being included in the beautiful commonality of the human race. Of course, these moments of triumph were punctuated by the inevitable recognition that I was still a 'nothing'. Out of anger and depression, I was often reckless and rebellious. There was heavy experimentation with alcohol, and the dangerous situations that accompanied that behavior. There was sexual promiscuity, and the dangerous situations and predicaments that accompanied that behavior. Although I cannot presume to speak for others, it's reasonable to think that no one understood the whys and whats about me. I was labeled, by the people closest to me, as immature, irresponsible, lazy, selfish, and self absorbed. Gee, what's that old saying about fuel, and a fire?
My only comfort was the wash of calm peace that came when I wished for death. I wrote endless songs and poetry of sweet permanent slumber. I even received commendations for my 'natural talent' and 'skill with language'. Though no one was ever able, or willing, to look into the deep end of my literary pool, through it's unmistakable transparency, and interpret my prose into it's obvious definition: help. Perhaps, I was just not worth their effort. It goes without saying, but I'll reiterate; my life was unbearable, and at that point, I was barely reaching the recognized age of adulthood. The ensuing phases of life brought no alleviation of the pain, and loneliness. I merely developed an exquisite expertise in masking my internal hardships, through two marriages, and motherhood.
After several years, it happened one day, that I suddenly had a realization to the endless cycle I was experiencing. Weeks of abusive internal dialogue, melancholic crying spells, and angry mood swings would melt into weeks of joyous, exhilarated love of life, that generously bestowed upon me the gifts of creativity, energy, and insight, only to revert once again. Finally making the declaration that something was not right with me, I agreed to seek professional advice. After several sessions, and some personality testing, I was diagnosed as Manic Depressive. I was thirty years old, and it was the best year of my life.
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