eyes to see


Some days I’d rather plan my funeral than my wedding.

Hope is a currency that I’ve overdrafted on. It’s like a mortgage I’m foreclosing on. Just like that man who served for our country, presumably an honorable man, the nation in the end failed him. Life is a guaranty of none. Is the deck of cards random or strategic? I’ve always been a firm believer in everything happens for a reason and I’ve watched time and time again God turn what’s meant for evil around for good. Money, prestige, titles, recognition are meaningless in the end. I sometimes smile, rarely chuckle, when I see the way people look at me and treat me around these parts. I never realized how ugly self importance is, until it broke off of me. I can see them look down their nose at me. They’re just jealous that I’m just as good as they are to live here and I’m retired. They don’t know the days I crawled with dirt and blood underneath my finger nails because the struggle was all to real. Like when I had to eat at my job because I struggled to make ends meet. They don’t know the things I’ve went without that I needed in the name of survival. The fact that I cared about the difference between $7 and $12 when I never used to give a damn. When I used to spend hunnys on overpriced handbags because I had finally “arrived” I remember the first CEO I won over after presenting to his 10MM+ company–a huge win in a male dominated industry. I had to have a $500 bag to match my equally successful career. I was the first to arrive the last to leave and drank my three cocktails–cranberry heavy on the vodka– to unwind from the tornado that my life had become. I remember many times in my life that my leaders were so hard on me I’d go home and cry, but it wasn’t until later in life that I was so appreciative of that. I learned to recognize it as a compliment. I remember fondly those days when I made my own schedule, but I’d still show up at 8:30 to work out and shower in my plaza before I headed up to my floor to swipe the badge and launch the laptop. My work always was recognized because of my tenacious work ethic. I’d have onsite in the middle of the night and hustle past quitting time to hit my goals. I could gloat, boast and show you how important I used to be–but I’m still important and I’m just as important as I was then. If you want a mindf*ck read my LinkedIn profile. I’m just sick now, more sick than I was then. They don’t know the price I pay to live this life or the dignity I lost or the pride I had to swallow. 1 in 5 bipolar people kill themselves because they can’t outlive their illness. One of my biggest fears is that my illness will overtake me and my will–which it has before. There’s times I’ve said things I don’t remember, days that have passed and I couldn’t tell you much if anything at all about them, and there are people who hate me for reasons I can’t remember–conflicts that I don’t recall. I’ve won and lost a lot in this life. I’m half way there. Sometimes I don’t know what’s real or true anymore. How sick am I really? Am I contributing to BIG PHARMA? Am I really incapable of working? Is my life even worth living? If so, for what? I’m losing faith in doing extravagant good, because I question it’s ability to make a difference. As much good as I do, I feel that evil just comes my way.


TBC and edited.

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