LIFE LIES

I’m a kinda-sorta Nietzsche fan, and this comment resonates. He said, "Not that you lied to me, but that I no longer believe you—that is what has distressed me."

You see, despite cutting-edge quantum theory, decades of spiritual studies, and millennia of saints and sages—my own history, recent and ancient, indicates that loyalty begets betrayal, heartfelt work begets. . . uh. . . severe cash flow challenges, and what goes around can come around and miss me completely.

Yes, Life, your perfidy has sown such doubt that I scarce know how to repair the voids left behind by your repeated failure to deliver what Perennial Wisdom promises.

Do you hear my malady speaking? This is how life looks from that dark childhood maze that waylays me from time to time.

On a scale of one to ten, right now I’m teetering on five. I take no comfort in the knowledge that it’s only temporary, either, as I never know which direction my next mood shift will take me. Could be good. Could be bad. I’ve been working very hard to ensure some mentally upward mobility. I've weeded out most of my bad nutritional habits. I take excellent nutrients and natural remedies, which I believe are working. But God help me, I grossly underestimated how badly I had strayed from everything that keeps me healthy. I conveniently forgot just how long I operated on "barely-functional" after my reserves ran out. I did not imagine the light-years I would have to traverse to reclaim my self and my raison d'être.

Daunting does not cover it.

Furthermore: How can I understand the things I understand and believe what I believe and be riddled by such doubts? How can I be blessed with my amazing, supportive family and friends, and feel so forlorn?

’Tis the nature of the bipolar beast, and therein lies the lie. Not in Life, as it turns out. Even as I type, she unfolds in shamelessly honest autumn splendor. But the bipolar lie calls it "incomplete" since I'm not in the woods.

No, the lie is the brilliant distortion with which bipolar disorder overlays everything. Be it grandiose or gloomy, the illusion is hypnotic, resourceful, and selective. Like political spin. You listen to it long enough, and you misplace your horizon. You buy the lie. And you spiral through as many levels of hell as it takes to capitulate or conjure the will to spurn the seduction.

Well, I personally am pissed, and I’m gathering my spurning tools.