I bought another pack today, and yes, I’m smoking from it.
Some of my followers think the problem is that I simply have too much time on my hands. Too much quiet space in the day where the mind wanders and eventually circles back to cigarettes. Maybe they’re right. Maybe idle time is like a stage where old habits walk on wearing tuxedos and top hats, taking their bow like they never left.
The truth is that a lot of my strategies just aren’t working right now.
That’s frustrating to admit. Nobody wants to write a daily journal where the hero of the story keeps slipping on the same banana peel. But honesty was the point of this blog from the beginning. If I only wrote about the victories and skipped the defeats, it wouldn’t be a journal. It would be a press release.
Lately I’ve also been disappointed in my art. I actually like what I’m producing. The paintings feel honest and colorful and a little wild, which is exactly the spirit I want in them. But the reaction online has been quiet. Very quiet. Sometimes it feels like the internet equivalent of telling a joke in a crowded room and hearing nothing but someone stirring their coffee.
My music feels the same way. I enjoy making it and listening to it, but the audience reaction is minimal.
That can get discouraging for any artist. You start to wonder if you’re speaking a language nobody else understands.
Another thought crossed my mind recently. Writing about smoking every single day might actually make it worse. Instead of moving past cigarettes, I might be shining a spotlight on them. Imagine trying to forget a song while playing it on repeat. That’s a little what this blog feels like sometimes.
So if I’m being honest with myself, the only thing I seem to be doing consistently right lately is taking care of the cat.
Whiskey Kitty, in all her tiny furry wisdom, is thriving. She eats well, sleeps like a champion, and treats every toy birdie like it owes her money. Cats live completely in the present moment. They don’t regret yesterday’s naps or worry about tomorrow’s naps. They simply nap again.
There’s something admirable about that.
But of course, just taking care of the cat isn’t enough to structure a life. Even the most talented feline life coach would agree with that.
My mother suggested something interesting the other day. She thinks I should sign up for a program at Cal State Fullerton for people who want to continue their studies. It’s designed for adults who want to keep learning later in life.
At first I hesitated. I’m not twenty anymore. When I was younger, school felt easier, faster, sharper. Now the brain sometimes feels like an old computer that needs a few extra seconds to load the page.
But then again, learning has always been something I love. I’ve done well academically before, and maybe getting back into a structured environment would give my mind something new to wrestle with besides cigarettes and self-doubt.
It might be worth trying.
In the meantime, the depression has been creeping in. Anyone who has dealt with bipolar disorder knows this particular weather system. It rolls in slowly, like a heavy gray fog that makes everything feel heavier than it really is.
Fortunately I also know something else: it’s temporary.
That’s one advantage of living with bipolar for a long time. You learn the seasons. The lows feel endless when you’re inside them, but experience teaches you they do pass.
Of course, once the clouds lift there’s always the other possibility.
The “upside.”
Mania.
Now mania can feel fantastic at first. Energy, ideas, enthusiasm, the sense that you could reorganize the entire universe before lunch. It’s like drinking twenty cups of coffee while riding a rocket.
The only problem is that rockets don’t always land gently.
And my mom definitely isn’t ready for that ride.
So for now I’m somewhere in the middle of this strange emotional weather report. A little depressed, a little discouraged, still smoking, still trying to figure things out. But I’m also painting, writing, thinking about school, and taking care of a cat who believes the world revolves around her food bowl.
Life is messy like that.
Progress isn’t always a straight line. Sometimes it looks more like a scribble drawn by a nervous artist with too much coffee.
But the story isn’t over.
Once again, I got this.
by Dan and Bonkers
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