Incognito. I might as well write freely, as I doubt anyone will discover this; it's been so long since I have been able to write. Bipolar Disorder steals everything; it steals your will to get out of bed. It steals your will to write, to do what you have to do to survive. And so I have been -- gone -- for a long, long time.
Mental Illness is not something we discuss very often. I was married to a man for 13 years who to this day does not comprehend why I am not like normal women. He need and eventually got one of those sturdy folks, god bless them truly, who can wield a vacuum cleaner, feed the husband properly, keep that big house clean, do the shopping and planning and cleaning that it takes to run a house properly. Oh that ain't me babe, no no no that ain't me babe. That wasn't me he was lookin' for.
It stings to be regarded as "less than" others. It does. It hurts when you struggle to function, to do the things that seem so easy for everyone else. It hurts when your own family hasn't the vaguest idea that your mind is a prison and your body won't work. Mental illness isn't always easy to recognize, and IS very easy to pass judgment upon: l'azy', unmotivated, dark energy.
Those judgments don't help the people you love, the ones that just don't seem to be all there. Unfortunately, there's not a lot out there for the "mental" in our society. In California they closed down most of those hospitals a long time ago - I don't know if that's good or bad, depending on how true to life "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" was.
So I'm sneaking back to write over here again. My editor Jason, at www.politicususa.com, knows my situation and says I'm welcome back anytime. Things are looking up. I'm starting to write again. The devils haven't gone away as my home is in danger and my fear is that I will be one of those cold people out in the rain, in the tent cities that are beginning to form in our nation.
Oh America -- what has happened to you? We are your children, all of us! The homeless, the mentally ill, the physically ill, the poor, the lame, the halt the illiterate, the professionals, the artistis I still have my home for now, but the fear of losing it haunts my every waking hour. Why? Because one Bank already illegally foreclosed upon a home my nephew and I built. I lost my life savings and stand to lose more.
It does not make me feel one whit better to know that I am not alone. The suffering of every cold, sick and lonely human is my suffering. We are all one, and we should act like it.