I started school and hardly have time for myself in the evenings.
I am writing this in complete darkness. Playing some TOOL from my playlist. The angry and extremely sexual lyrics about anal sex and LSD trips are too abrasive to listen to on my early morning commute.
It is almost 9pm ACDT. This is my hour. My special time. I am worried it will be like this for awhile.
So I decided to go back to college. I am starting out in a plain Bachelor of Arts. I actually started a BA here straight out of high school around 7 years ago. I did some classics like anthropology, philosophy and psychology. I was waiting to go to Calarts then, so it wasn't a serious choice.
Maybe people don't understand why someone with my career history would go back to school. Surely I'm good enough at art to hunt down jobs right?
Well for needing to heal for half a year, I had felt inferior. Utter TRASH because of fear of what people think. It is hard to summarise the anguish.
It was 6 months of such self-loathing and lack of self, that I barely could get out of bed. I slept at 9pm on the dot, like a robot except I was miserable. I did it because I had no love of being awake. I had chills of dread that attacked me for months cause by my anti psychotics, it has a medical name for the experience. Akathisia. It was not fidgeting, it was a compulsion to shake my legs otherwise I would self implode.
I have felt shame for everything. Ranging from how I said I was a lesbian when manic, to even just little things like taking a break from working. I had to keep up all the lies of me being perfectly normal out of my personal terror of what people would think of me. Such is the shame of bipolar.
No, I am straight as fuck. I dream of men and men only.
I had to at some point, just severe myself off from these fears of judgement. Of course people saw my Instagram of me in my underwear. Of course people saw me babbling on about some of the most obscene and ridiculous things, in a completely cringe way. No media was sacred. Touhou Project, My Little Pony, Berserk....everything had symbolism and everything was connected to my sense of 'gay' at the time.
I was also obsessed with 'autism' during my incident. However, it's important to note that I was aware I might be on spectrum since back in 2018 or 2019-ish, I just didn't look into it at the time. I do know I'm on the spectrum but as I became manic, my behaviour became more and more wild and childlike. Deep down, that was just my deepest desire to be a child again. My autism is so much more subtle than mania.
It hurts, because I am attached to MLP, except I wrote some retarded stuff about being like the goofy (and often compared to being autistic) character Derpy Hooves because I 'realised I was gay very slowly.' The weird thing is, I did feel gay. Sudden gay. It was brain chemistry helping us live out vivid delusions. Showing me such happiness, discovering something so fantastic about myself surely I would love myself now? No. Even if people supported this fake coming-out, it was all mania. I think it was a morbid curiosity as well. Maybe life would be better if I swung the other way, since men sure as heck don't really get me. That was my sadness. If in general, men don't seek me out, maybe women would? :(
It would be selling myself out if I kept up the lie that I was bisexual. Just to save face like I did for months. Nah I want the D. I thought maybe mania had a point for awhile? Of course I respect the feminine. I don't see myself as feminine, but when manic I was attracted to typical displays of femininity. In the cute anime girls and pink ponies and such. Is it sexual love? No, I even tested myself and did go on a date with a girl in early January, but it really isn't the same. I don't want to talk about matters of sexuality, because for me it is shallow. Maybe I'm not straight because I haven't fucked enough guys? Because I'm shy and inexperienced? Does my sexuality count? This is my inferiority issue. Why the heck am I blogging about this? Because I want to get to the root of it and have some nugget of information to tell my therapist.
My pain is wondering if I was forced into this situation. Studying because I am unable to perform the high intensity storyboarding job I used to. Therefore, I either waste time kicking around my dads' house and do nothing but blogging and my video game project at most, or I take more on my plate and start a degree. The latter is going down a road that will lead to new skills, new friendships and even a new career path. I can still blog and do projects. Win win.
Then my nihilism kicks in. That I am a victim of a cruel fate that has forced me to just survive. Is this the voice of a depression and pessimism that has stuck with me a long time? I had a traumatic thing happen that will take years for its after image to fade out of my conscious mind. It simply is something that has affected me for life. Accepting that this has hit me, simply because of my genetic predisposition. Nobody in my dads' side of the family has a history of bipolar, they don't think my moms' side does either. Shit just happens.
When I accepted my fate, I realised that at a basic level we are all just doing the same things.
Breathe, eat, sleep, fuck and imitate communication and friendships. Sharpen our clubs and pointy rocks to get what we want.
I realised eventually, all my stewing in suffering is just me wasting precious hours. Those precious hours of my life could be spent doing literally anything else except hating myself.
It could be watching a gory movie, browsing cool facts on Reddit, messaging (internet) friends, studying French/English/linguistics/film, working on my video game, chatting with family, going for a cathartic jog and DDR session that takes up an entire Sunday. Living.
Even drawing. Drawing used to be my primary de-stressor. My way of dealing with acute feelings that needed instant release. Even just a doodle could be insanely satisfying. Now, drawing is much harder. Instead I turn to writing short spurts of violence, darkness and psychological torment, even whipping out my Surface Pro on the train home to do so.
All those are worthy, because it isn't crying in shame. It is me respecting myself and not tormenting myself with feeling lesser.
Some of my inferiority complex is this shame of sexuality. Since I have been made fun of before and regret giving myself to men. I don't see how other people find sex satisfying, I have only ever felt uncomfortable and not even able to, you know what, around a man. Maybe my fear has been being unfuckable. I get older and a part of me accepts I will grow old, my body clock will stop and I won't pass down my genes. Wont pass down my red hair, intelligence and kind soul to anyone. To be too inferior to be a partner. Too inferior to be a mother. Everything a woman is 'meant to be'. Right? Right? Or can I just exist like the 40 year spinster-like women in a Jane Austen novel?
I guess I'm getting dark, because I know my beauty as a good person. If people are as vain as to judge BA degrees for being lame, they don't appreciate English, language and film. If they think its weird to go back to school in late 20s, they don't know what hell I've seen in psychosis. If they think I'm strange for not settling down with a partner well, shout out to any men reading this, you should pay more attention to the shy and kind girls that actually know how to love. We love hard. :)
Healing over my inferiority complex will take awhile. I was going good until my incident. Things in life happen that shake us up. I'm pretty sure people that have other trauma or grief would agree. No matter what gender, colour or creed, things fuck people up. Never forget that. Extend your empathy to others knowing there is a sadness capable of winding its way into the soul deeper than anything. Deeper than any ray of happiness can reach. The thing that can reach however, is a hand saying 'I can't believe how hard things are for you'. Tell them that yes, life can be this damn cruel. Don't tell them to see a therapist and don't tell them they are being dramatic.
Healing also comes from fetishizing pain. We have to. I guess that's why I'm turned on by eroguro. In the physical pain I see a release from excruciating mental anguish. It's ok to be a sensory meat sack. The barf is beautiful. The blood is beautiful. The cum is beautiful. This ugly body is artistic. I am binging exploitation films, yeah.
My inferiority complex might be healed through acquiring new skills. Through a sense of pride, competency and such. I think other people wouldn't realise this until they lost a life passion they worked their whole life towards. Even if blogging is simple, it gets me writing. Thinking about metaphors sometimes, or even just trying to make sure my posts have a reason.
I basically have been forced to be a tentative optimist. To accept that of course, I can feel satisfied and happy again. All that needs to be shaken off is the inferiority, and replace it with a respect and kindness for myself. I am a late 20s BA starter chick who has years of intense experience in animation. Those years aren't shame. They aren't void because of my bipolar incident. I'm proud of myself for this interesting life. I didn't think I'd feel 'this good 'ever again.' So it must keep getting better.
Nobody will praise me for how well I've grown and adapted from trauma. Nobody but me.