It’s no secret that I live with bipolar effective disorder, it’s easier to tell people upfront and not surprise them. Type II rapid cycling, I guess I’m lucky that I don’t go full out walking-through-the-streets-naked crazy. But it’s hard. I’ve felt weird and “hyper-sensitive” all my life. My emotions have always been close to the surface and easy to provoke. Most of the time I’m in a state of hypomania. This means I’m energetic, friendly, loving and relentlessly positive. I see the good in everybody and I honestly love the whole damn world. When I’m like this I can look a stranger in the eye, say “I love you” and be completely honest. When I’m depressed I can look at the same person and call them a piece of shit and mean it too. It helps me make sense of it all to write. ever since I could I’ve been making little rhymes to say how I felt… Maybe it’s because my peers shoved me out so I retreated into the world of words and stories… Maybe I was already there and that’s why I didn’t belong. regardless, I’ve been there for all of my memory. I wouldn’t call myself a writer. Almost everything I’ve ever done has not been for public consumption, but as my own coping mechanism… And I find it a little difficult to look at it in a serious light. Really. I’ve had no real training or education of any sort. I got a a GED at 17 after my 3rd consecutive 9th grade year and ended up going to a community college in my 20s… and I’m going for a theater degree. Not exactly an Academic intellect here. I’ve no large grasp on poetic forms and whatnot. I can talk poetic/rhetoric devices all day… But only because you really need to know them to fully grasp Shakespeare (on which I’m slowly becoming something of an expert… I expect to be one by the time I’m forty). I don’t know. I’ve begun to treat this blog like my journal. I’ve put what I would normally surreptitiously scratch into a spiral ring out here for public consumption… and I’m kind of wondering what that’s about. Hm. I don’t know whether this is a good thing or what. I’m just putting thoughts down. In no particular order… I always start out trying to tell a story, but it gets tangled. I wonder who would read this. I wonder what they’d think… What they’d identify with. Am I identifiable? If I were a character would I want to play me? I’m probably not that interesting… But then again… I’m still here.