It Could Be Worse, Right? [august 18]

 [August 18, 2021.]

I should be working on the chapbook I’m supposed to be writing, but the thing is I don’t feel like I have anything to write about, nothing to say. At least nothing interesting or worth writing about. I don’t know what to do.

My mood’s been mixed lately. Both manic and depressed, up and down, a mixed episode and it’s terribly uncomfortable. I’m not sleeping well and I’m barely functional in the mornings. Daytime depression. Midnight mania. I’m burning out and fading away. 

[10:53Pm.]

This is the thing: I feel like I’m writing around the story I should be telling. Distracting myself with these manic diary entries and my poor poetics.

Here’s the thing [Bullet With Butterfly Wings is playing]: I was born with a rare condition called Bladder Exstrophy, which means my bladder was on the outside of my body when I was born and my hips weren’t fused together. Exstrophy means turned inside out. 

Three weeks after birth I had surgery to put my bladder back inside of me, and I was in traction for several months, something like six months [I think], while my hips glued themselves together. 

This condition has influenced almost every aspect of my life, it has made me the man I am today, for better or worse. I don’t think I’ve let myself fully feel the pain that Bladder Exstrophy has caused me. I know I need to process the trauma that my defect has caused and I feel like I need to write it all down. But I’m not sure if I can, even though I want to. I feel an obligation to share my story, especially if my pain can help someone with the same rare condition. But I can’t find the right words, I don’t know how to begin. I need to write about it, tell the story. I don’t know if I can.

[11:12Pm.]

Here’s something else: At 26, after having had surgery to repair my bladder and revise my stoma [a hole in my belly that I catheterize through], I experienced my fist full blown bout of mania. My first manic attack, ending with psychosis and grand delusions. This, for some reason, feels easier to write about, easier to write about than my bladder. But, again, I don’t think I’ve fully felt the pain manic depression has caused. It broke up my marriage and led to addiction. It changed my life forever. I’ve written a chapbook about this aspect of my life, about this episode and it should be coming out in October with Between Shadows Press. I hope. So I won’t say too much. 

[11:22Pm.] 

There’s a piece of me that feels like shit could be a lot worse. Worse things could’ve happened to me and sometimes I feel like my pain and trauma isn’t valid. It’s just life, everyone suffers. Some people suffer more than me and their pain is greater than mine. And to write about it, writing about it now, is just whining and bitching and nobody needs that, right? It's not as bad as it could be, so why write about it, why even think about it? I ignore the pain and hope it goes away. I know I should process it all. I know I need to tell a story about it. I’m in weekly therapy because of it and my psychologist and I are working through it all. But who gives a shit? Who needs to read about the “pain” of a middle aged SWM, there’s already enough of those stories, right? What makes mine special. I feel nothing does.

Fuck! Here I am whining and griping and bitching and moaning and groaning. Ignore this.

[11:36Pm.] 

I distract myself with my manic Diary, with this stupid blog and I write around the real story, around the pain of life. I don’t know if I will ever let myself feel it all completely. My mom and dad always told me life could be worse, that I should be grateful that I’m not in a wheelchair, etc. They always invalidate my feelings and my anger. I don’t know if I have the emotional tools to deal with the trauma, the pain. Therapy helps. I don’t know if I’ll ever tell the full story, but this outburst has helped relieve some of the brain bile that was building up in my haggard head. I feel a little better and I might even be able to sleep soon. I sure hope so. 

END! [11:45Pm.]