Choices

  It has been a minute since I've written here. Life gets away from us sometimes. Whether we want it to or not.

Choice is a funny thing. A thing that has always been an important part of my life. You grow, you learn, and you choose what you want to learn next.

This can result on you pulling away. Turning your back to people. And it feels necessary. Because, deep down, you know it is.

At that point, for your reasons, you make a choice.

So choice is important. I know it's important. It has defined me. For better or worse, it is me. 

So I can't think on choices... not too much. I'm bipolar and I have BPD. I survive thanks to choices. It is selfish. Sometimes. It feels selfish to others. Often times. And through our scope, our eyes and our experiences it is necessary. It has to be.

Otherwise... what's the alternative?

Self hatred? Regret? Displaced anger? Poorly directed actions?

We choose, in our lives, in this moment... our moments. We choose to make decisions, every day. And we have to abide by them and understand the why's.

The alternative? From where I am? At this moment?

A failure to accept the validity of choices. Of how it served you. Why you needed it. What it gave you.

And what you learned.

This is my first post, here, in years. For a reason. For my choices and my reasons.

I'm a writer. I write. I choose what to write. I agonize over it from every angle.

That is who I am.

So. Are you still with me?

Great! This will be a long entry. It's 2023 so... obviously... an update in an old journal is quite required.

I have learned a lot. The greatest of which was how the politics of the landscape in 2016-2020 were changing me. I was negative to all. I wanted to shake people awake. As if they were asleep and in a nightmare, plagued by the world around them that they saw was a dream.

I wasn't going to succeed. How could I? And if I could, how would everyone feel about being roused from a peaceful sleep early?

I mean... I know that I am pretty fucking cranky first thing in the morning. I assume that was the motivation from me and the response from all.

See, I forgot something in the political miasma and chaos that I felt during that time. It all comes down to choice.

People made theirs, I made mine. We couldn't will each other to listen. Or beg. Or hope or want or need or desire it.

We're free to make our choices. And honestly? We should be.

My feelings needed to exist. I needed to hear and be heard. Shouting and despair and resentment... this didn't serve me.

I changed. In a negative way. And when I slept, I had nightmares I couldn't wake up from.

When you see a nightmare when you're awake and you can't stop one while you're asleep, the issue resides in you. More in you, anyway.

So I took a step. I had to. As if I was a Buddhist monk. I needed solitude. Peace and reflection to be alone with my thoughts and survive my own chaotic nightmares.

I deleted Facebook. Twitter. I stopped writing. I stopped creating. I lived in a self imposed exile. I turned to a person I could trust. In reality, the only one I truly could.

Oddly enough, that person was me.

Events transpired around me. I withdrew.

Vitriol shook the world. I withdrew.

The political landscape changed. The President changed. The posts changed, the news changed. In fact, even the articles, memes and even we, as a society, changed...

And I withdrew.

My katana was rusting. My armor was in the attic, collecting dust. The mask of a Samurai, of which I liken my exile to, was off and forgotten in the room over my head.

I couldn't see it. And then peace was all I was left with.

I gave myself permission to be at peace. To rest, to sleep, and escape my nightmares.

It was useful for me. Very useful. And as a choice, and a person who has to reside in a moment, I selfishly cast aside all else until I could... heal.

The process was slow. I imagine tortoises moving faster.

But I got there. I'm here today.

I'm also writing again.

Catharsis is an amazing thing. I never regret my past. Never. In a high or low... catatonic or withdrawn. In a hospital or over medicated. No matter what, I cannot regret my mistakes.

That is also a choice.

My son was born because of choice. Different choices? Perceived by others? Well... that cannot fall on me. My son was born. I am grateful. I love that he was born. Why would I risk not having that?

Choices. They define me.

I chose to leave the Air Force. My disorder pushed me in that direction. My past was my reasoning. I resented and regretted the things and people who got me to that moment, who I saw as failing me, because I know they did. I know they did. They know they did. We all made our choices. I left boot camp. I mentally chose against a career in Air Force Intelligence, which directly sacrificed my wish of becoming a DOO for the CIA.

Those were my choices. The parts that weren't, obviously, were not. I didn't choose to be bipolar or to have BPD. But I did. I have those. They are there. Nothing will take those away.

I have lost friends and girlfriends. Rightfully so. I am, without sympathy, a mess. I am broken and was broken. It was not up to anyone, least of all them, to pick up the pieces. I couldn't even see the pieces. I couldn't even buy the glue. I didn't know whether I was a vase or a bowl... or some other random thing which could break... like a glass or ceramic inanimate thing. I was a person. Not a doctor. Just a broken person.

People chose to step away. They should have.

I'm glad they did.

I am almost 37. Less than 9 days away, in fact. Should I regret all my years now?

I'm choosing not to. Otherwise... what was it all for?

I must move on... but I still need to continue this post. It just needs to be in a different direction.

A year ago, a med change started. It ended up being too much. Too fast. My choice felt as if... it wasn't mine. I had a choice... but with my 36 year old mind I couldn't overcome my way of surviving those 36 years. I was easy to convince. I trusted all others implicitly. I ignored myself entirely. Which included the benefits a med change could have on me.

So here is today. You are caught up. I am like a pen that is running out of ink.

I am moving backwards, to a manageable dose. I see why things went wrong. I know why I chose to ignore it. Why I felt unheard and why I was mad no one heard me speak.

I also respect the intentions. My quality of life was sustainable. But not great. Never great.

But now, at least, I know it can be. It can be better. I'll be able to write and finish my book. I'll be able to overcome my exile and step back into the world. To say hello to those I left behind.

In the end, I never choose to be selfish. I just need to be sometimes.

This is why choices are important.

Because whether they are mine or yours...

We wouldn't be who we are today without them.