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Well hello there, person.

“But where was I to start? The world is so vast, I shall start with the country I know best, my own. But my country is so very large. I had better start with my town. But my town, too, is too large. I had best start with my street. No, my home. No, my family. Never mind, I shall start with myself.”—Elie Wiesel

I’m trying to write my way to some form of clarity, perhaps. Also to educate myself and store research. And to connect with bloggers.

Bipolar, manic depression, manico-melancolicus, la folie circulaire … I has it. I am not only bipolar and I am not all about bipolar, but this blog is (mostly). That’s why I made it. I figured I could inflict my incessant and obsessive process of getting my head around this on strangers online.

Dx: CPTSD, Bipolar 1 (continuous, ultradian cycling, plus mixed and psychotic features) – early childhood onset, late diagnosis, ADHD, agoraphobia, C-PTSD, WED (the artist formerly known as RLS).

Rx: fluoxetine and olanzapine.  

More obvious aspects of me are that I am South African, queer and incredibly,  amazingly marvellous to look at and be with. Also, I tend to talk shit. Here’s more about me on a cool South African bipolar blog, that you should follow too.

Contact me

The email addy connected to my wp account is a spam catcher, so if you want to get in touch, use this nifty contact form instead. If we know each other on a blogging level and you want the password to my private posts, gimme a yell. The self portrait project page is password protected, only the people who have self portraits there get the password.

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Δ

The most beautiful thing anyone’s ever said to me:

ROUGHGHOSTS

I will tell you something.

There is a little village perched on the edge of the Indian Ocean. In that village there is a house with a little wooden fence, no razor wire, an open stoep, no high wall or bars like a monkey cage. There lives in that house a beautiful soul. 16,337 fucking kms away and there is not a goddam soul in this city where I have family and friends who understands me like she does. I used to say I did not want to live, making the same careful distinctions every time I got that question about suicidal ideation and intentions. I know the difference. And yes, I feel like shit. But just over 6 weeks ago I fell asleep and almost had the decision about living and not living taken away from me. I do not believe in heaven, hell or reincarnation. If it is dark in the here and now I suspect it is even darker in the gone.

Here there is a light however faint she imagines herself under the Southern Cross. And I believe in her more than anything else at this moment. I hope to fucking hell she believes in herself because I want to sit on that stoep again, listen to the birds calling and watch the sun burst in glory above the sour veld.