When I started this page [refering to my facebook page "Our Dystopia"] my intent was to begin a dialogue between fellow artists who suffer from mental illness. I figured that if I put myself out there and bared to the facebook community that I suffer from borderline personality disorder and have been diagnosed as having many other mental problems for the whole of my adult life that people would step forward and share their own stories. The goal was to help others by sharing for I know, as well as I recognize my shadow, that feeling like you are alone in your abstraction is one of the most horrifying facts of being a person with psychiatric problems. I've had this page for some time now, and, well, it's a valley. An empty fucking valley where my own voice echoes back at me as the only sound. Hell, I tried.
A year ago I quit drinking. I figured that without the chains of my brutal alcohol addiction I would be able to finally succeed. I knew that if I kicked that crutch out from under me that all of the loose pieces of my life would fall into place and all would be fine. Well, I tried.
For the past year, I have managed to keep a faint smile on my face. I have tried everything I could think of in order to make a living as a photographer, and every time that failed I looked for other means of income while never losing stride in my pursuit of a working photographer's life. Interview after interview, no's in so many forms, rejection after rejection, and I still kept trying. Even though I did not have a job or any photo assignment, I still went out to the streets to work on my craft nearly every night. The nights I missed were usually due to my camera being pawned in order to pay bills. I would struggle to buy it back just to lose it again and again. As Sisyphus cloned, I tried.
This past year I dealt with the death of my ex which many people blamed on me, but I knew all the facts that no one knew; I knew my innocence. Shortly after that, my father passed away two thousand miles from me. I watched as all the people who were not there by his side during those years when he was loud, full of life and without a hint of death's shadow upon him, now crowded his bed with wishes of a peaceful departure and vows to do whatever they could to make him comfortable. I, though, could do nothing for him. All I could do was to miss him and mourn him prematurely in my home that is no home and with a mind and heart torn, deluded and aching. There was nothing to try for, but I still had my dreams.
I know that one way or another I will get what I want. The timing may not be perfect but for some reason that eludes me, I can not quit. I can not give in to the brightly lit words: " we will break you" glowing a thousand feet high. Like the fool I am, I try.
It may never show, but my heart pumps optimism. I don't want to think about what hardships await me, but I know that somehow I will overcome. I feel alone and I hate that, but some things just are and all I can do is try to keep the few friends I have; try to remind them that my delusions, my sorrow, my pain, and my agony are my demons. I can reassure them that I am not the way I am because of anyone or anything, any doing or not, and that I am sorry for being half a person; I will try to be better.
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