From my LiveJournal, May 17, 2007:
(I get the feeling this is going to be the forward of the book I’ve been trying to write for the better part of two years…)
So, here I sit, another night spent- rather, wasted- reading other people’s blogs and wondering what, exactly, I’m doing with my life. I have a job interview scheduled in a week and a half and I have no idea what I’ll do until then- I quit Wendy’s out of sheer frustration and a desire to keep my hard-won, very expensive sanity intact. I haven’t quite run out of money yet, so here I sit, reading blogs.
It’s five thirty am, nearly six, when I finally haul off and go to bed. My roommate doesn’t know, she’s working a night shift. So long as I am up when she gets up the next afternoon she can stay in the dark about it. It’s one of my triggers, staying up all night, but we don’t discuss it if I can help it, because it makes us both feel terrible about things.
I change into my pajamas and lie down, turning the light on, thinking about my failed book attempts, thinking about my illness and how long I went before I had a proper diagnosis, when statistics blindsided me. On average, most people with bipolar disorder go ten years before they get a proper diagnosis. How long did I go from when my general practitioner mentioned manic depression that first time? Was I twelve, thirteen perhaps?
One of my most recent favorite books pops into my head. “Stop Pretending,” by Sonya Sones. It is a heartwrenching tale told in journal-style of a sister whose older sister has been diagnosed with schizophrenia. I have made most of my close relatives read it at this point. The journal-style is a sticking point in my late-night, sleep-addled state: I kept journals sporadically through my teen years. I was a prolific writer. What if I combined some of my journal entries over the years and made a book out of them? Eight years passed between that first tentative diagnosis that never really was and the official one in the hospital during college. My journal entries are a window into a tortured mind that really had no idea why she was so tortured, not until years later.
I leapt from bed and started leafing through old journals, most of which are up in storage and at six in the morning I doubt my upstairs neighbors would appreciate my rattling about. The older ones will be retrieved later. For now, the two I have closely at hand work, as well as old entries in my blog, which date back a few years at least.
I suppose this is the most rambling forward an author could ever hope to write, but it is a journal of sorts, really and truly. My disjointed ramblings for the world to see and to hopefully glean a bit of truth. I now present to you my journals, my deepest soul ventings. I’ve kept a few parts to myself, and changed a few names to protect the guilty, but for the most part, they’re here.
Same mission, different day.