Conceited Inspiration

I got my meds again. Started last night.

I’m frustrated by the feeling that life could be so much more. I was lucky enough to have developed a brain with lots of potential talent in it, but unlucky enough to have also developed a mental illness that compromises my mood, concentration and energy to put that potential into good use. ´

When I say “I was lucky”, I’m not putting myself down. After all, I am not truly responsible for it. I didn’t design my brain so I can’t take credit for it. Which also means that I shouldn’t feel guilty every time I think “My mind is fucking beautiful“. I don’t have to show you why it is fucking beautiful. Expression is a talent on its own and I haven’t developed it.

Now, if I’m not going to take credit for its beauty then I can’t take the blame for its madness. I’ve always been odd too. Maybe I was diagnosed with depression at 16, but there were 16 years of brewing before that (plus gestation). Lonely, misunderstood, little curious child. I could always sense that I was different. It was good and bad at the same time. Good, because yes it is a good thing to think you’re special. Bad, because most of the times you don’t feel special, but ‘wrong’. The sense of not belonging eats you slowly.

I only began to feel like I belonged after I discovered the internet, oh glorious tool for bringing together like-minded people that you’d have no chance to meet in your immediate vicinity. No, they just aren’t there. Not locally. The sample is too small to allow for a reasonable likelihood of unconventional minds. They stare at you blankly when you share the  most exciting parts of your mind. They call you lame and make you think you did something wrong, or ARE just wrong. Spend enough time around them and you’ll get convinced that you are.

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