It's taken me a while, but I managed to delete nearly all my manic posts, when I was clearly delusional, because I could not endure the embarrassment of having them publicly displayed.
I began by saving them as a record of my insanity, but this became tiresome so I deleted the rest en masse, with the exception of "The Goodest Samaritan" series which I thought, though laced with some delusional content, an interesting narrative.
In my last post I said I would write about things only external to myself, but alas, I am not able to. The maelstrom of my psyche forces me again and again to return to that slippery notion of self, and my self has vanished into a stream of voices that argue, but mainly condemn my being. I'm working in therapy to rid myself of self-critical thoughts, but the fact of the matter is that I am nearly psychotic in my continuing depression and self-despite, though slightly more functional than when I was hospitalized for acute suicidality.
If anyone reads this, I do not ask that you should pray for me, although that is welcome, but rather that you embrace the light and try your best to ignore the darkness that threatens to swallow up our souls at every minute. Nature abhors a vacuum, and darkness inevitably, insidiouly, invades--at least in my case where my defenses proved inadequate.
"God is light and in him there is no darkness at all." Hold on to the light within your own psyche as much as you can.
I have lost belief in my personal myth, the foundation of the self. I am at such loose ends; the cat has unraveled the whole ball of yarn. I don't know where to begin to ravel it up.
If I begin writing about my struggle with manic-depression again, forgive, consider it therapy. Forgive the manic delusional content of my postings in the latter half of 2010, else laugh at them as I must, though my laughter is laced with pain.
Thank God for Kathleen and all who have stood by me in this indescribable roller coaster of pain. To think oneself divine and then have the worm revealed, the self obliterated, is a death worse than death. After the death of the self, how does one construct another to replace it when the basic faith in having a self is lacking? This is my conundrum.
I have no poetry or wisdom to offer, just my suffering, and my caution to other bipolars not to buy into their grandiose delusions. Alas, by the time mania takes over it is too late to get through their thick messianic skulls how far from the path of sanity they have strayed.