Storytime

I pitched this blog to a friend a few days ago.  I stumbled through broken Spanish and said it was both personal and public.

What I think is so different about what I am doing is that I am publicizing my deepest insecurities and challenges with bipolar disorder.  Sometimes I think people like it because of pure voyeurism.  Other times, I think that we are all simply struggling with the same things, we might just not know it.

Because I am diagnosed with bipolar disorder, I am “supposed” to feel paranoid and anxious and suicidal and manic and all the other lovely things that go along with it.  But what we might not know is that everyone feels those things to a degree.  You might not be driven to suicidal thoughts, but you can probably point to a time today where you were angry at yourself.

There may also have been a time where you were really excited about something.  For example, after I left the climbing gym, I got really freaking excited about sushi, The Beautiful Writer’s podcast and Broad City.  I indulged seriously.  That type of excitement is pretty similar to how I feel when I am manic.  Except, multiply it by a million and make it last for oh, let’s say, five months.

We are all struggling with something.  Rarely, do we look at each other and think, huh, I wonder what is going on with that person.  We keep our secrets and darkest fears to ourselves, romantic partners and best friends.  I love those people in my life, don’t get me wrong.

But the next time someone cuts you off on the highway, try and think, I wonder what’s up with them today.  Because it might be shit.  It might be so awful and they might be tearing down the highway because there is an emergency at home.  Or maybe they are just trying to make your day worse.  Hmm, I bet it’s the second one.

We are experts at making stories.  Our lives are made up of millions of intricate little journeys.  We leave home, in search for something, and return with treasures to show ourselves and others.  It is a miraculous ability we have developed.  We used to sit around fires, play music and dance.  Now, we leave the story telling to New York Times Best Sellers and those brave enough to play a chord on the piano.

Whether you know it or not, you tell yourself stories everyday.  They are magnificent tragedies about that boy who didn’t text you back.  Or rip roaring mysteries about who farted in the car.  Or maybe they are fanciful sagas about how your parents just don’t get it.

This kind of storytelling is great.  And we all can do it.  However, it can get in the way of so much of our life.  Sometimes, there is a great story to be told.  Other times, that boy didn’t text you back because he just didn’t check his phone yet.  Or maybe you failed that test wasn’t because you are inadequate and worthless. Maybe it is because it was just a hard test.

I have spiraled into incredible galaxies through the stories I have told myself.  I am always the main character and somehow he gets royally fucked over in some way or another.  Because that is the story I have let myself hear ever since my Dad died.  But recently, my dreams, imaginations and stories are changing.

They are bright green, healthy and downright happy.  They are not obsessed on a singular idea ramped with fits of paranoia.  They are not chained to a single past event.  They are also not chained to any preconceived ideas I have about myself.

They are free.  They fly.  They blow in the wind.  But it took years of work to make it there.

It takes real work to be happy.  It is not about going with the flow and letting others’ dictate your life.  It is not about getting good grades and hitting all the sick parties, bro. It is about figuring out exactly what makes you happy and making the necessary changes to do those things every fucking day of your life.

Life can be your greatest villain.  It can also be the most awesome Superman you have ever seen.  Red cape and all.

I met a man today who said we are all part of the same light.  He also said that we, as children, choose our parents in the cosmic ether before we find our physical form.  He told me that, as children, we find our parents because we can teach them new vibrations about life.

While that makes absolutely no sense biologically or physically, it was a nice thought.  I can remember being a freshman in college.  It seemed like I was the butt of every joke from upperclassmen and professors.  I had a lot to figure out.  And I still do.  But I have a voice, just like everyone else does.

Everyone can teach you something, no matter how small of a voice they have.  Next time that little voice creeps up and tells you a story, listen.  It is telling you something new about your life.  Think about the repercussions of that story.  It might just be the best thing you listen to all day.

You are a storyteller.  Just create some space to do so.  You might be blown away at what you find inside yourself.

And if you don’t like the story you find.  Guess what?  You have the power to change it. No one else is going to do it for you.  But you?  You can.  And that new story is going to be the best one on your shelf, I promise.

I’ll leave you with a video I made for my Dana Farber fundraising effort. Enjoy.

peace, love and paradise,

CR