// μ = m // dayvan cowboy // music is math

Here’s to the fucked up. The crazy ones. The misfits. The chronic wallflowers The suicidal. The manic. The round pegs in the square holes. The ones who see things differently. And while some may see you as the ones with weird issues, I see life. Because sometimes, just sometimes, the people who are fucked up enough to think they don’t fit in this world, Are the ones who change it.

1. Trinity said it best. The Matrix cannot tell you who you are.

Just as I stole the general structure of the opening verse from an old Macintosh ad, I stole this soundbite and others from Alone from The Last Psychiatrist. Credit where it’s due: it’s another blog blog journal ger hipster quoting the Wachowskis about the same context I do. I’m also gonna steal some soundbites from Jerod Poore, the mastermind behind Crazy Meds! All of these might be used way out of context. Do read these guys. They kick ass, know more about the psychostuff than I do and make for general pleasant reading. But let me cut to the chase and repeat it.

The Matrix cannot tell you who you are. The Matrix cannot tell you who you are.

The first step out is acceptance. Self-acceptance.

Some of the most fucked up people I know are people who invest all their energy and all their soul into passing. Passing as what they’ve grown to believe normality is. Passing as what their parents expected them to be like, passing as what their peers have always been like, passing as someone in their condition is supposed to be like. These are the people who can’t give a shred of an answer when you ask them who they are. They are, um, what people are. Normal people.

No, really, this was way unexpected. And I’ve had no stinkin’ antidepressants either, just old’ school anticonvulsants; this week I took my first non-anticonvulsant med and it was an antipsychotic. I’ve been depressed all my life, mostly the dysthimic, “soft” kind of depressed comparable to the chinese torture where they tie you down and let a tiny droplet of water fall on your head every ten seconds.

But with some random lashes of the real stuff too. And then, when the last straw broke, maybe a year ago, a psychiatrist (whom I shall refer as my shrink) diagnosed a case of “soft” bipolar II and gave me anticonvulsants with a soft, very soft antidepressant edge. Then I fliped out. Not like now, anyway. They never expected the spanish inquisition that even though I’d get better from the depression and have longer and longer periods of stability and an improving overall functioning (a better social life, an actual job), I’d be getting these progressively higher crises of [hypomania.

Thinking back, I've had a couple of [hypo]manias before treatment. Guess I am bipolar after all. I shall refer to them all as manias; apparently you only get to call them manias if you spontaneously self-combust from the sheer self-destructive behaviour, and as long as you have a shred of consciousness you don’t get to be manic.

I have a shred of consciousness. I’m here at work, where everyone’s wearing a suit and I’m supposed to be preparing for an important meeting in two hours, and I’m in my “KILL YOUR POP STARS” t-shirt setting up the blog journal for the book I’ve been writing for a few weeks now. But I noticed that. I’ve not gone psychotic, I’m just having fun.  Because contrary to what jaggerian though proposes, I can always get what I want.