Birthday: Reflections, Refractions, and a Serious Confession

Last week was my 36th birthday.  I just getting around to writing about it now, mostly because I don’t know how I feel about it.  One thing is certain:  I feel old.

I broke a rib on New Years . . . Coughing.  I broke it coughing.  Who the hell breaks a rib coughing?  I have saggy man tits and a jiggly belly.  My back hurts.  My blood pressure is up.  I suppose that these are normal things, but there is a lot more on my plate.

Lifewise, I like where I am right now, but it’s not where I expected to be.  To be honest, I expected to be dead by now.

I have a serious confession to make.

I have severe Bi-Polar Syndrome.  I was diagnosed when I was 14.  I spent much of my teenage years in and out of hospitals.  I went to a special school for the “emotionally challenged.”  The side effects from the various medications are torturous, to the point where I no longer know what it’s like to “feel good.”

As an adult, I have never been able to hold a full time job for more than a year or two.  No matter how extraordinary I am at the job, I inevitably have a manic or depressive cycle and lose it.  I ended up working low paying odd jobs and resigning myself to poverty.

Last year, I ended up homeless in the middle of Winter.  I was living out of a ’97 Saturn, which I would park in a park or parking lot and hope that I wasn’t carjacked.

Through most of my adult life, I suffered without help.  I didn’t know that there was help out there for people like me:  mentally ill, but not ill enough to require a group home.

Thankfully, I found help.  MHA found me a place to live, and helped me to apply for disability.  So yes, now I am a drain on society.  I am ashamed of this, very ashamed.  I hate myself for it.  I wish that I could stand on my own, but I tried and failed at this for 36 years.  I still live well below the poverty line (you don’t want to know how low), but at least now I know that I will always be able to pay the rent and have food to eat.

This is not where I expected to be.  I still work towards getting off of disability, but the only thing I am able to do, even when I am having an attack, is write.  It’s the only thing that I have ever wanted to do, and oddly enough, it’s proven to be the only thing that saves me.

I don’t know why I am confessing something that I am so ashamed of, especially when there is such a public stigma towards it (no, I don’t own a gun.  If I did, I would’ve turned it on myself a long time ago.  It worked for Hemmingway, right?)

I am ashamed of being ashamed.  Ashamed of hiding who I am.  I just turned 36 years old, and I don’t care about being stigmatized anymore.  I don’t care if you judge me.  I don’t care if you are revolted, scared, or made uncomfortable by me.  I don’t care if you think that I am melodramatic and think that I should just “suck it up.”

I just turned 36 years old.  I have bi-polar syndrome.  If you have a problem with that, you can go to Hell.

That’s what I tell myself.

Thank you for reading my blog.  If you like it, follow me.  And don’t forget to check out and vote for my serial “The Watchmage of Old New York” on Jukepop Serials.  Chs. 1 & 2 (of a planned 6) is up now.  Registration takes a minute. 

And of course, you can look at my fiction and nonfiction right here on this website.  Writing is the only thing I do well.  Help me to keep doing it.


Writer’s Angst

I am suffering from a bad case of Writer’s Angst.  This is the feeling of depression and anxiety that only an arrogant douchebag that thinks that anything that he creates is worthwhile and can somehow contribute to society can have.  I am an arrogant douchebag.  I am also full of self-loathing.  I suppose it is these contradictions that make me a writer (see?  it’s comments like this that makes me a douchebag!).

So the reason I am full of angst right now is because I ended the year:

  1. with stories left unsold (and by ‘unsold’ I mean ‘given to magazines for free because it is such a ridiculous buyer’s market that writer’s are grateful just to see their work in print)
  2. by finishing up an unsellable story (a novellette!  who buys novellettes?) and having too many ideas for projects to start next
  3. realizing that I am getting old and I am still relatively unknown, and that I will probably die unknown, with all my dreams unfufilled.  The downside of having dreams is that they almost never come true.

Also, my girlfriend has moved away to go back to school, and I miss her very much.

Re: my New Year’s Eve party:  3 people came, they left by 11pm.  Another rager.  I swear that I am fun.  Fun fun fucking fun!

This has been another whiny post.  I promise that my next two will be funny, even if I have to quote people funnier than me.

I will end with Grumpy Cat

New Year’s Eve Party at Hotel Craiggers!

I am currently waiting for guests to get here for my big giant hugemoungous NYE party, that really isnt that hugemoungous.  I am expecting 6 people, including myself, but that is about the maximum capacity of my tiny studio apartment.

I love to entertain, and I spent far more money getting ready for this than I should’ve.  I’m a writer, which means that I am painfully poor (more writer’s angst in a later post).  I wanted one of those giant subs, so I ordered one.

Myyyyy hero *swoon*

It came at 1pm.

That means that I had to find a way to fit 4 feet of American Hero (half without cheese) into my fridge to keep it fresh until guests get here.  That’s a lot of sub for 6 people . . . or not enough.

I also put out a dish of my precious Starbursts (they are a contradiction, just like me).  I hope that somebody brings booze.  I only have one bottle of Bacardi.

I really love entertaining, but I always expect that something will go wrong.  Mostly, I’m afraid that no one will show.  This comes from experiences in my childhood.  I was unpopular and only a few kids would come to my birthday parties, even if they were at someplace fun, like at a bowling alley or an arcade.

12 year olds all bowl with blue balls . . .


the kicker was that none of my school friends came to my bar mitzvah.  3 Friends came, and I knew them from outside of school.  Instead, of all my “friends” went to another kid’s party because they liked him better.  A couple did come to the service, and for that, I am grateful, but there is nothing like being the center of a party where the only people there are relatives that you hardly know.

When I was a teen, i always tried to have people over at my place and I would supply the beer or weed.  I wanted them to like me.  I think that they did, but they certainly liked my beer.  The fact that none of them talk to me anymore is probably for the best.  Sure, people drift away, but that little kid standing alone at his bar mitzvah still feels like he’s up there on stage alone, in an awful brown suit, with terrible hair that my mom cut and big ugly glasses.

This turned into a very whiny post.  I am sorry for that.  I will end with 5 things I like about throwing parties:

5 — I don’t have to drive home — I can get as drunk as I want and don’t have to drive drunk. (BTW: AAA will drive you home for free tonight)

4 — No passing out on a strange couch — There is always the danger of waking up with a penis drawn on your forehead.  Once I woke up covered in vomit and girlfriend (Not the current one)

3 — People bring you beer — alcohol delivery system 🙂  Remember, in fiction, all writers, priests, and wizards are alcohol dependent

2 — The antici . . . pation — I love the feeling of right now, waiting for people to show.  It’s all very exciting

1 — Validation — I am weak and I need to believe that people love me.  More whininess.  I am such a douche.