1. Being Ordinary.
Maybe I’m nothing special. Maybe that little voice in the hole in my heart is right. But then of of all those other voices? The ones that come from real people and not some ugly little gnome called Self-doubt? Are they lying? Maybe so. But, ‘A lie told often enough becomes truth’. That’s right, I quoted Lenin, bitches. Maybe it’s just that I’m lucky, and I meet particularly delusional people. Yet, no matter how often I am told I am special (or any variation thereof), there is always, always that stupid gnome that tries to convince me that I am ordinary. That I am just another human bean in my own narcissistic pod amongst a billion other pods.
“You are unique… just like everybody else.”
I hate that fucking quote.
I can’t even write about this. Suffice to say that this is the best way to see me screeching like a little girl. I will scream, flee, stamp my feet… you name it. In Thailand, I jumped on a chair in the middle of the restaurant (and accidentally swatted it onto the waitress’s neck but we don’t need to go there.) Okay, can we stop talking about this now? Thanks.
I hate that fucking word. (This post has a lot of things I hate. Funny that.) All my report cards said it: Alexia has so much potential. If only Alexia paid attention/made an effort/stopped day-dreaming. You get the drift. At 26, I finally understand their frustration. Being a B student is fantastic… if that’s the extent of your abilities. It is not okay if it’s because you’re lazy. And I am lazy. I hate to admit it, but I am, and it’s funny to laugh and say, hey! I’m Greek! but it’s not so funny when I’m middle-aged with a mediocre job saying, you know, kids, I could have been a famous writer if I’d only sent out poetry as often as I watched Grey’s Anatomy. Potential. What an ugly word.
4. Bad Mommy.
I know most people are scared they’ll fuck up their kids. At least, good people are. Especially if they’re a bit complicated.
Here’s an eleventh secret: that’s how I knew there was something wrong with me; when, at the young age of twenty, I was already worried about how my mood swings were going to affect my children. That’s not something people tend to worry about, is it? They don’t think, How will my children get to school on the days I can’t get out of bed? They don’t think, Oh god, they’re going to grow up and write a book about I fucked them up by not loving them enough not to be depressed.
So I’m going to tell you a secret (yes, I’m putting a Secret in with a Fear ‘cos I’m a rebel like that). I know this is public and I know everyone I know knows about this blog (incidentally, another word I hate) but only the people that care about what I have to say would read this. And I am okay with those people knowing. Knowing what? Knowing this:
For the longest time, I thought I was weak. I was constantly asking myself questions like, My life is perfect so why do I feel this way? I have spent days crying, even at work, because I felt so hopeless. I have spent days in bed with the shutters closed, with bottles of wine and tubs of ice-cream. I have often thought of killing myself.
And then there were the times when I thought I was invincible. When I sprung out of bed in the morning after only a few hours sleep. When I regularly forgot to eat. When the world glowed and I was completely in tune with the Universe and I knew, innately, that I was special and I had a purpose. Epiphanies flooded in. I was electric. I was magnetic. It was contagious. My phone-book grew fat. (You know, if we had phone-books these days.)
Inevitably, I would crash. And the cycle would begin again.
On day last year, I went to therapy. I went because, after the accident, after the heartbreak, after the wild summer, I crashed. And immediately, I was diagnosed.
Bipolar Disorder. Ding, ding, ding! *
Everyone reacted in the same way. Their face lightened in realisation: oh! Of course!
So, to recap (because I’ve got off on a tangent), one of my biggest fears is how my mental illness (god I hate that phrase) will affect my children. Because hoping that I’ll love them enough to be mentally stable is wishful thinking. So, instead, I’m hoping that it will make me a better mother. A more sensitive, open-minded mother. And maybe that instability will serve them, will help them become more independent. I know assholes become parents all the time. I just don’t want to be one of them.
5. Live Life
I’m scared that I won’t live my life the way I dream about it. That I’ll always be writing more than living. That I’ll always be Tomorrow and never Today, a Thinker, not a Doer. This is kind of silly because I think I have a lot of stories which means I’ve already done a lot… right? And that makes me scared that no matter how much I do, it’ll never be enough.
6. Cat Killer
I am twenty-six and I do not know how to drive. I will not apologise for this. It just never came about and now I’ve settled into a very sweet routine of being picked up/dropped off by family/friends. When the time comes, I think I am going to be an awesome driver, no matter how reluctant some people are about getting into my car (yes, I’m looking at you, Sunshine.) However, I am absolutely terrified about hitting one of those goddamn stray cats that dart out in the night. Those bastards could ruin my driving career. I can’t even eat that instant Miso soup I bought because it’s got 1% fish oil so how am I going to feel when I take the life of a cute -albeit flea-ridden- creature that could have been my cat?
So, if not driving means I don’t get to murder stuff, that’s okay by me.
Considering my experience, this should be here. But it ain’t. In your face, flames.
8. The Classic
Losing my peeps. I really love my peeps so if they do something silly like die, I will be very sad-face for a long time. So, like, don’t do it, okay? Also, I know it’s, like, totally natural to lose your parental unit but what the hell am I going to do without my mommy? Uh uh, not happening. No way, siree. We are all going to live forever.
Unless my depression comes back worse than ever and I top myself.
I’m not very funny, am I?
On a final note: Happy Women’s Day!
You don’t have to signal a social conscience by looking like a frump. Lace knickers won’t hasten the holocaust, you can ban the bomb in a feather boa just as well without, and a mild interest in hemlines doesn’t necessarily qualify you from reading Das Kapital and agreeing with every word.
Admittedly, I have no idea what Das Kapital is so I can’t really agree or disagree with it, but you get the drift.
*Now that my Bipolar Disorder (Disorder? Your FACE is disorder.) is out there, I think my posts are going to make more sense. Just so you know though, I refer to it as Polar Bear. ‘Cos I’m cute like that.