Smart Arse

Smart Arse
It has been brought to my attention that, at times, in my pathetic attempts at humour, that I have become a smart arse. I have often used my own preferred term wise cunt and though this carries the depth of insult in to the aggression of the Glaswegian, it also provides a certain retention of arrogance. A smart Alec is liked by no one. No one likes a clever cunt. It is widely known amongst those who study Buddhism, specifically karma, that a smart arse will invariably get their come uppance. What goes around, comes around. I will get, and have already got, what is coming to me. Whilst I accept my fate just as I accept I can be a smart arse, I feel that I have in no way played the Charlie big potatoes. For some, this may appear to be splitting hairs. Some will feel all clever cunts by their very nature play the Charlie big bollocks. I would, however argue that a Charlie big bollocks may affect a higher status than befits their reality. I have not boasted of having money, success or faked a standing above my station. My crimes are of an intellectual arrogance. Too readily have I dismissed the knobhead, the cock weasel and the knob jockey. To look down on others less blessed with intelligence or less skilled in acting the goat or playing the fool is as cruel as mocking the less beautiful, the less talented. If blessed with good fortune a man should be magnanimous. He should respect others for their successes within the scope of their own abilities. For it is in acting the goat that smart arsery is arguably at its worst. I can but apologise for anyone I have hurt in my reckless tom foolery. I have paid a severe price; the loss of respect amongst my peers in the world of contemporary woodwork. Ostracised, shunned by my fellow tradesmen, I walk with bowed head, a study in shame. Gangs of small children mock me in my poverty. Pelting me with stones, ridiculing me with songs and chants, mocking my fall from grace and respect within the very group from whom I sought approval. Quite why I drifted down a route of certain carrier death can only be explained by understanding that I suffer from mental illness. This too has caused offence. My endless banging on about mental illness and self medication has caused deep offence to others struggling with their own issues. In being open I had hoped to contribute to a cultural change where other sufferers could feel free to speak out in the knowledge that this will not affect people's perception of them, mental health, after all, is a sliding scale that affects a modestly estimated one in four people at some point in their lives. As time has gone by I have frequently questioned whether 'coming out' was a good idea.
For a few months after my suicide attempt I remained psychotic and self destructive. A systematic rudeness to all and sundry left many close freinds and acquaintances permanently choosing my exclusion from their lives. Now, in a clearer frame of mind I recognise this behaviour was self harming. An attempt to uproot all and any respect those around me still had. I exaggerated the depth of my drug problems in the awareness that this is seen as self inflicted, indulgent and hence less forgivable than my diagnosis of 'bipolar 1 disorder; recurrent; severe with psychotic features; full inter episode recovery.' One of the many criteria I fulfil from 'The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual', the bible from where psychiatrists pick your oddity, is 'excessive involvement in pleasure able activities', I imagine my substance problems lie here. Personally I have always found the term bipolar a terribly misguiding name for what is a severe condition. I prefer the older, more accurate, manic depressive.
Picking up my life after last years events has been slow and difficult. It is ongoing. In my semi autobiographical novel I wrote and posted on my blog I blurred truth and story. The descriptions of my psychosis around the time of my suicide attempt are exactly as I experienced them. Travelling deep in to the future. Such is the seductive aspect of the condition. At the early onset of a mania you feel extremely powerful, confident, intelligent, sharper, less needing of sleep. Medication kills these wonderful episodes along with the deep depressions that invariably follow.
I never meant to suggest I owned mental illness or knew anymore than any other sufferer. It is difficult to explain that, despite the stormy weather, I wouldn't choose to be any other way than I am. I can not seperate my condition from myself. In some sense I am unable to seperate off the aspect of self medication either. I wouldn't, however, ironically it may seem, wish it upon my worst enemy. I don't fully understand why opening up regarding these aspects of myself has angered some of my readers. As I mentioned, I have regrets, but I chose to write openly about my life as I experience it. I jokingly suggested we all present fictitious online personas. At times I will adopt a characature to express some truth, but I hope, if all my writing were to be thrown in the blender, the resultant mush would be a clear and accurate picture of myself. Some events, like my suicide attempt, I didn't feel able to tackle head on. By blending the events alongside semi alto biographical novelistic styialisation I felt able to discuss more openly this dark period. It is just over a year ago now and the psychosis flowed on with peaks and troughs, through patches of sanity and delusion for a good six months. Writing now I still have days where a slender connection to reality resurfaces. What seems hardest for others to grasp is that I am unaware when one drifts to the other. From my perspective it is all just my life. Only after the storm am I able to see the delusions for what they were. In writing parts as a novel I could provide some daylight by adding humourous asides into what could easily have read as a confused and terrifying mess. To describe the period in a flat examination would have made for a dull read.
There are so many apologies left to make, so many I hurt or let down. What appears inescapable is being me. My endeavours, thus far successful, are to avoid self medication. To stick to a correct medication as low a dosage as I am able to tolerate and to try keep a smile on my face. When between episodes I am happy, friendly, reliable, in no way different from anyone else. By coming out I recognise many problems in many areas of my life from work to relationships however I honestly feel liberated to have it off my chest. For sure, some people no doubt can't accept me as I am but I can't act out a character to suit others. I suppose we all do that, to some degree. We present the parts of ourselves other individuals can tolerate. We all have to talk to elderly relatives and much of my life would be beyond their sphere of experience. Even amongst my freinds there are some I tell more to than others just as, I'm sure they do to me. In some measure this is out of respect. Choosing to post episodes up on my blog, open for all the world to see, has delivered less problems than I imagined. Most people just aren't that interested. People I speak to day to day rarely read what I write. Why would they want to? I'm sure they get quite enough of me already.


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