The formation of this writing has been a long time in the making. Not necessarily the formation of the words, the syntax (as if I really pay attention to that sort of thing) or the arrangement of the paragraphs, so to speak.
But, the timing of my soul's readiness to put to paper the thoughts and deep seeded emotions that have plagued me for several years now.
Many of you that have read and followed my travails know that I use humor to deal with pain, stress, anger and every raw emotion known to each of us. It is my defense mechanism. Hell, it is a defense mechanism for each of us. I simply use it for everything. I tend to take it too far sometimes. I hear about it, believe me. I especially use sarcasm and humor when I'm hurt and angry. And scared.
The last two years have been especially difficult for me. Most would never know because I hide it well. I don't write about the fear. I don't write about the hurt as much as I should. I express my hurt and pain through my writing using jokes and I have directed those jokes and that anger towards the ones I saw as ones causing my pain. Namely, my children.
I'm not going to make excuses. But let me elaborate. In the past four to five years, In addition to the whole Bipolar mania, jail stays, mental wards, suicide watches, divorce, bankruptcy, loss of family and selling all of my remaining possessions, I also nearly lost my mother, twice and did lose my father. Not easy for a man who is a donkey on the edge to begin with.
So I write. It's hard for me to verbalize what is inside but it is much easier to put finger to keys.
When I was highly manic, I did some very bad things. I said some terrible things to my children and my ex-wife. I was bat-shit crazy enough to provoke Navy Seals to fights. I called my own 14-year-old son a pussy for not wanting to hold my new survival knife. I was not a good dad that day. I wasn't myself.
I still have my moments, I always will. This brain of mine is highly sensitive and very attuned to influences. But it is always going to hold a little bit of 'crazy' deep down inside.
But, I love my children, and I regret each and every day the things that I've said and written that have hurt them and driven them farther from me. I just hope that they know I am not ever going to be a 'normal' dad. But, that is not such a bad thing. I do understand things that most people can't comprehend and I 'feel' things that seem impossible to regular people.
Although I have written some pretty awful things in my past blogs about my ex-wife, it was at a time that I was angry. Angry at the situation. Angry at her, angry at myself. Unsure of where life was headed. There were a plethora (my favorite word) of emotions in those blogs. But, although my ex and I are not the best of friends, we are amicable. We can talk. We do not hate each other. I wish her the best in life with her new husband, I really do.
Since those bad times, I've overcome quite a bit. Through the worst of times, I've found myself. I've discovered unconditional love. I've found a woman who loves me despite the many faults that I bring to the table and I often question her sanity as a result. I'm sure she questions her sanity for staying with me at times as well. But, through it all, she stays, and she understands that despite all of the struggles, I'm a good person with a good heart full of love and understanding who makes mistakes. In other words, I'm human. When I was manic, I wasn't human. I was invincible. At least in my eyes.
I wish my son and daughter the best in life. I just wish that they could see me as I am. A person with feelings, emotions and hurts, fears and uncertainties like everyone else but dealing with those with a mind that never stops. A mind that can't stand quiet. I'm not invincible. I bleed. Too frequently (damn age). And my knees hurt. But my mind works ok, most of the time.
This blog is for you Anna. It's not an apology. It's what you make of it. Read it and click 'delete' if you want. But, I hope you'll understand, I just told the world things I've never told anyone.
Ball's in your court.
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