I don’t like it anymore. Well, maybe I do, a little bit. But I don’t need it anymore, and I have a preference for writing for specific audiences. This blog has helped me write when I have lacked purpose for writing, to write for the sake of my need to organise and express my introspection.
Shouting into a true vacuum of space siphons off some thoughts, because nature abhors a vacuum [our family motto for our messy house]. But I want to direct my communication energy into networks now.
Something has changed drastically over the past three months in how my brain and body work together. I think I am better now than I was before.
I’ve had a few diagnoses handed to me as bitter pills, syrups in silver spoons and disguised as refreshing glasses of water. I resist all of them.
Crasy, psychosis, bipolar affective disorder, manic episode, borderline personality disorder, PTSD, none of these are what I want, though each offers a cloak to wear on different occasions. Crazy meant a good thing in the local slang, ‘jungle english’, which also has a catch-all phrase for illness: ‘jungle fever’.
I’ll continue to struggle to beat the borders in my brain and along the way I might learn a thing or two about jungle fever.
5 months later:
I found that as the hypomania drained away I was gradually left with nothingness. That the sparks hadn’t caught. I found I was devoid of words and thoughts, that I had nothing to write. I got lazy in my body as well, with some of the lethargy being caused by the quetiapine medication I was left on. Music kept on bringing me out.
And continuing to go through the motions of doing things I should be into was better than letting time slip by unstructured. I made travel plans: to return to the village in Ecuador I stayed in 8 years ago. Maybe with more energy and excitement I’d have found something new I wanted to explore – but this has been a back burner plan for years.
I haven’t kept the clarity of vision that felt connections and intersections so strongly in the tail end of my hypomania. I miss it. The dreary cynicism that’s returned is simply tired of information and platitudes – the big picture of the world I have is harrowing enough without fine detail, and all the insightful things feel already-said.
I’ve increasingly been emerging and engaging though. I’m hoping the jolt of being away from the UK will help me shift out of this misty quagmire onto firmer land with more visibility. Maybe then, once I’m less detached in myself, my thoughts will seem worth thinking again.