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  Where to start? At the beginning, I suppose, but my life always seems like it’s just beginning. Perhaps I should start in the middle and work my way to the two ends, i.e., my early years and the present, alternating between the two, sort of the bipolar approach to autobiography, and this would be altogether fitting for I am bipolar, although I prefer the term manic depressive, because bipolar has about it the feeling that such an affliction only manifests itself at the extremes of mood, whereas in actual fact, manic depression affects one’s every mood.

When I peer rearwards over my life looking for a suitable metaphor for it, tornado in a trailer park seems most apt, for I have destroyed two families worth of wives and children, and I have only my psychiatrist and my therapist of the 8 years since diagnosis to thank for the forgiveness afforded me recently by these wives and children.
 

They have forgiven me, but of course they have not forgotten the havoc wreaked, the terror instilled, or the sins committed. Not that there wasn’t laughter too, for I am, or used to be before meds, a very funny man.

It’s been an interesting life, albeit, in retrospect, one rife with shudders. And although I have caused much suffering, suffering with long lingering consequences, I don’t feel guilty about any of it, for it was not me who caused it. It was me in the throes of madness, i.e., not me at all. Some would not agree with this stance and would hold me responsible totally, but perhaps it would soften their hard line take on it all if I told them that I am sorry for all the bad jazz that went down. However, in no way does this sorrow imply that I am, or feel that I am, therefore responsible for its cause.

I guess it is that if you're going to be a writer, one intent on a serious contribution, and what writer isn’t, then you need to be prepared to go mad, for all the very best words hide in the shadows, live in the penumbra that separates oblivion from frenzy. And that's where you must go to find them. You won't come back. You won't want to come back.

 
 
 
 
 
 
The truth is, after much furrowing of brow, I can't think of anything to say by way of preface to my blog. Along the way I wondered what it's purpose might be and maybe I should say a few words about that and would, except that I don't know what its purpose is, or could be, or should be. I only know that my clock is winding down and I'm so desperate to have my mind known that I could just spit! Maybe my blog could be about that. But how depressing and pretentious that could be! But hold on a second, maybe not—my therapist commented the other day how in late adulthood (AKA elder years), one is forced to deal with the sense of loss, all the time, it's always there, and it's painful, it takes great faith to live on even though one knows it's going to end and that whatever they accomplish, if anything, is not going to matter all that much. How does one find meaning or a sense of fulfillment in life knowing that it’s coming to an end? Psychologists have not written much about this if anything. It's sort of an unexamined part of adult life. It takes a lot of self-discipline to function in spite of this sense of loss—it's so easy to give up on the constant struggle, on life. A lot of people do—drinking, TV, drugs, electrosex, So, if you'll bear with me, let us examine this unexamined part of adult life.
 
 
 
 
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