I have had a disturbing moment last week, when — despite being on two different medications and waiting for a third one — a certain deity still spoke to me. I told the deity in question to, I quote, fuck off and die, and he went quiet. And then I thought, a few hours later, obviously I am indeed crazy. But there are perks to that.
I am on speaking terms with a pagan god. If I said to many, many people that Jesus speaks to me, it wouldn’t be crazy, it is somehow only crazy when your imaginary friend has a different name. And my imaginary friend is quite an interesting one, and in a way at the beginning of the year I felt like the chosen one to be able to speak to him. Why not continue enjoying my chats with him instead of getting upset that there I am getting all crazy again?
“Suffering” from bipolar disorder isn’t always that painful. The hypomania for instance wasn’t painful to me at all. Being creative, having lots of sex, being happy and social isn’t the worst thing that has ever happened to me. Neither is being on first name terms with a pagan god, who may or may not be my father. There’s more than one god that you can call “our father”. And whether he lives in heaven, Valhalla or any other realm inaccessible to mere mortals isn’t really the most important bit.
I have a very unusual haircut, lots of tattoos and piercings in my face and in other body parts. Yes! I am crazy! I can do those things and nothing you can say about that applies to me! RESULT. (Well, I don’t really think about myself like that, but you get the picture, right?) Yes, perhaps it is mania that makes me dye my mohawk red, but today I was chatted up by a gentleman in his sixties, who congratulated me, mentioned his kids had hair like that 20 years ago and, generally, expressed his jealousy. If it’s mania that gets me interactions like that, I’ll keep my mania.
(Don’t ask me about the bit where I am depressed though.)