One would think that I would be comatose by now, given the fact that I have only had seven hours of sleep in three days. The mania is bad enough, but when you throw depressions into the mix, it makes for some rather interesting results.



Racing thoughts


If it were not for my meds and my coping skills, I would more than likely be one of three places…a psych ward…a straight jacket…

Or the cemetery.

Big choice.

My illness is a double sided blade, it keeps me under constant stress just trying to develop coping skills to deal with it, and it seems to be the source of my talents, for I can neither draw nor write the rare occasions when I am calm.

And in the highest of ironies, the very gifts that seem to find their roots in my illness are mainly what I use as coping skills to deal with it.

So, for a coping skill right now, to try to slow down my thoughts, I have chosen to share how I use one of the selfsame talents, writing.

I will be truthful, I do not know if anyone will actually read this, much less care enough to comment, but perhaps another who walks this road may gain some ideas through my words that might help them. I have little knowledge of the world outside my home, as I withdrew from it shortly after I ceased being able to work as a sign painter over ten years ago. That world has brought me nothing but pain, rejection, ridicule and even at times physical abuse because it simply could not accept me as I am, so I withdrew from it for my own well being.

I will say this straight up front to any who read this or may consider following me, if you are expecting witticism, humor, trendy discussions, cutesy-cutesy stories or sayings, or things of that nature in following me, then I fear you are going to be sadly mistaken. It is rather difficult to crack jokes when you have been the butt of them most of your life. I have little to no sense of humor and I do not see things the way most people do.

I do not think as most do, nor do I express myself in their way. On my fiftieth birthday I woke up and realized I had wasted my whole life trying to change and hide who I was in the fruitless pursuit of approval and acceptance and I made a decision, or, you might say, a vow…

For whatever time is left to me, I am going to be true to myself, and to heck with what everyone thinks I should be. I am tired of dancing on my hind legs like a trained poodle hoping for a handout only to get kicked in the ribs or handed poison.

If you read my pages, stories or verses, and you do not wish to comment, then so be it. I guess my words won’t be accepted any more via written form than they are vocally, but to those few who do take the time from their own busy lives to not only read but to comment on my words and my thoughts that I share with with you, as long as the comments are not hurtful, derogatory, or demeaning, then I thank you in advance.

This is MY page…MY blog…MY words…

Just as the stories I write are. Those who either have or may in the future choose to follow me will quickly learn I have a proclivity for both unusual means of expressing myself and also in the usage of descriptives. I do not write flat, cookie cutter renditions of stories that are ghost images of a thousand like them by the time the agents, editors and other “crystal balls of the wants and opinions of the masses” demand that I remove the very things that give the story life…that paint pictures with words, I write from my heart.

Which is precisely why I got permanently banned by a bunch of arrogant, supercilious supposed be-all’s and end-all’s of knowledge of what the masses want because I refused to follow current trends and made my opinions and feelings known with regards to becoming a pre-programmed little robot, churning out color-by-number stories practically devoid of any life at all once you remove the paranormal, violence, sex, crime, immorality and special effects.

And before someone jumps up and starts waving their finger in the air shouting “Ah, but you write fantasy!”, yes, I do, but I write in a style that is distinctly my own, with emotions, as the story tellers of long ago would have told them, with all of the descriptive detail.

For any who are interested, read what I have here and on Scribd, the link to my page which is and decide for yourselves if you like my style of writing. If you do, I would welcome your comment or a follow and will try to reciprocate, if you write in a genre I favor, but if you do not, then that is alright too.

But do not demand I change.

Those days ended the day of  my fiftieth birthday. Which is why I will be using CreateSpace or Lulu to publish my books, for they will be in my words, my voice, and not a story that has had the life sucked out of it by those who claim to be the all knowing god’s of what the masses desire.

In short, they will be written from the heart, for the sake of the story…

Not the bankbook, power, prestige, or my name on billboards.

I am fifty three, agoraphobic, and reclusive. Let those who favor center stage frequent it, I am content to be the one changing the music to which they dance, but I will be true to myself and hold my own music within my heart and soul. If I make enough to get myself out of my current depressing conditions and maybe afford a few extras now and then, I am content. Beyond that, money has little interest to me, nor the things it gains.

Nothing purchased by mortal coin can be taken with you when you depart this earthly prison.

A simple two bedroom little home, if it is mine and mine alone, is enough for me, for you can only occupy one space at a time, and if it keeps me warm, dry and sheltered, then it is enough.

The clothing I wear need not be high class, for it merely performs a function, to hide my nudity and to protect me from the elements.

The food I eat need not be gourmet, as long as it nourishes me.

I have no need of fancy possessions, for I have no friends to worry about impressing.

At least if people do choose my company and companionship, I know they are choosing me, not what I can do for them, or how they can brag that they know me in order to build their own self worth. I almost pity those with wealth, for they go to their graves never knowing if those who claimed to be their friends really were, or if it was their money, position and social standing that kept them tagging along.

Better to live completely alone than to live a life of doubting your own self worth.

I am not now nor ever will be the worlds best writer, for I speak in my own voice and I refuse to become a drone. I tend to use phrasing and terms that may not fit into what is acceptable “by the masses”, but somewhere out there, maybe only a handful, there are those who think somewhat as I do. And I will make no apologies for that. Either accept me as I am, or accept me not at all.

For those who should read this, or any of my other posts, if my words find favor in your eyes and you should wish to comment, then feel free to do so, I am no longer basing my view of my own worth on the “notches” in my mental comment tally. But if you do comment, please have the common courtesy and decency to refrain from derogatory ones. If you have nothing good to say, then say nothing at all. I am not a target for you to sling your poison penned darts at.

Nor are my posts and pages places for you to leave your advertising, for whatever purpose. I am not your personal billboard.

Many will view my words with disfavor, and this is their right, but I tender no apologies for those selfsame words.

At least I am honest and do not wear a mask.





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