I am a self-diagnosed manic. There are some dark days, but having friends who are truly afflicted with depression, I won't say I suffer this malady. I'd like to say I'm bi-polar. By my strange way of thinking it would be so much easier if I could claim an official disorder to explain my behavior, my life. I experience intense episodes of activity- regularly. The focus of my mania varies among my serious passions but I also suffer weeks of what might be called obsessions- on-a-whim.
I think last week I confessed to binging on blog hopping (happy to report it's ebbing so I can get on with my next obsession of the week). And when you binge it really doesn't matter if it's pints of sticky toffee pudding or Internet surfing. I'm clearly aware of my dysfunctional behavior so why don't I stop? The truth is: I'm tired of trying, a lot of the time I'm really OK with it even though it inevitably means things I should be doing go undone, because after enough therapy and 12 stepping, I've come to conclusion that I don't want to fix everything. Life is short and for the most part, I like me. In fact, the older I become the more I love me. This is a good thing.
Every week, a group of artist folk spill our guts. Our original aim was that in doing so, we'd have some fodder to feed our passion for writing. I don't know if we've accomplished this, but I enjoy connecting with my sister artists. You can join us here.