First of all, it's been a long time and I shouldn't have left you without a dope beat to step to ... or at least some blog posts to read. Astute readers and "Friends-of-Snob" have pointed out on numerous occasions my last post here was in November. My last articles on Clutch and The Root were in January and I promised, on the Facebooks and Twitters, that I'd come back in February and now March is almost over. So, yes, that is all true. My goal was to redo my site and re-brand/re-launch on Wordpress, but Wordpress struggled to import all my old posts (I've been blogging since 2007, so there are quite a few) and I'm so busy and impatient I no longer have the energy to futz around with my own HTML and make something pretty.
Entries in bipolar disorder (35)
Today in "All Aboard the Bipolar Express" I examine my emotional tie to a childhood literary character I always found troubling and problematic until I realized that character was myself.
I'm going to assume everyone here has heard of Winnie the Pooh, the animorphized teddy bear with a thing for honey who lives in the fictional Hundred Acre Wood. I'm sure if you didn't read the books, you were inundated with the cartoons on TV or your parents bought you Winnie the Pooh stuff because they liked Winnie the Pooh. But I never had that problem because even though I was painfully aware of who Winnie the Pooh was in book, cartoon and 300-count threadsheet form, I was not a fan. I think I was either too old when I finally discovered it or already cynical. (I've been a cynic for an extremely long time, becoming self-aware sometime around the age of 8 when I realized the Cold War was paying for my Barbie dolls as my dad worked in the aerospace industry.)
It probably hit me yesterday when I was watching President Obama address reporters after the bill for strengthening background checks and closing loopholes failed in the Senate. All the sad, familiar faces behind him -- either victims of gun violence or had lost a loved one to it, coupled with the round-the-clock, often incorrect reporting coming out of the Boston Marathon bombing.
It hit me how even after I turned the TV off and went to do something, anything else, the feeling still lingered. It was there when I went to the gym to work out. When I ate my oatmeal in the morning. When I combed my hair. Even when I spent time with others I should have been enjoying.
I was depressed. And I didn't know why. After all, I was doing all the right things.