the life of zooey who happens to be Bipolar 2
If you’ve read some of my blog posts in the past, you know I identify with Vincent Van Gogh. He is a top contender for my most favorite artist. His work speaks to me with its color, content and movement. He walks with me through the ups and downs which invariably happens with a BP2. He was in Dr. Who for goodness sake. It is a ferking cool tribute to the brilliant man.
It’s a blessing and a curse to identify with an artist who worked tirelessly throughout his life on visual expression. What do I do but drop all visual expression from my life. Sad, really. More and more, I feel like my life has become a living waste of space. Where is my productivity? I don’t call my corporate weenie job productive in the long run. It is a job and when I leave it, it will be due to layoffs or I just can’t stand it anymore. Someone will take my place. Nothing to show for it but money towards the mortgage. My outside-of-work distraction are video games. Electronic space that’s gone in a blink of electricity.
But I missed his birthday by one damn day. Vincent was born on March 30 and I on March 31. It would have been so cool to share a birthday with him. Something that could egg me on a little out of this creative rut.
Instead, I fight the the she-devil inside. The IT which whispers, “Look how old you are. Look how you have gone down hill. Look at your crepe paper skin, bags and wrinkles. Look at your bulging belly, you lazy, over-eating ass. Really, zooey, not much left, eh?”
There are kernels of truth in those statements. These kernels of truth are eating away at the day. It’s hard to redirect thinking on my birthday as my IT mocks me this way.8ish hours and counting now.
happy belated birthday, vince.