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Hi. My name is Brian. I have Bipolar II

This has been a draft for a long time. Meaning its been written for a little while, but I have been scared to say it to the world. I just wrote a big forward like piece of crap to the one below. Dont remember writing it. Not going to read it. But i know its no poem, and I talk about my diagnosed mental illness that i am ashamed of having. Or something. Point is……
I dont fucking know man…..

With having a diagnosis of bipolar depression, I have had a life full of extremes. A middle ground in any regard, finding one, has been an endeavor I have often given up on. “At least I’m not boring” is something I have said as a weak defense in the many (extremely) honest conversations I have had with others about who I am. Whether I know this person well or not has close to no bearing on my choice to disclose what most individuals, especially those to whom I have not even introduced myself to yet, simply don’t want to know, let alone give a shit to know, and when . And see, thats the thing. My disclosure is masked as a self acceptance. I’m confessing. Im very lonely and alone, much of the time. My tone will write a lot. I play bass. I take me pills. I walk a lot. My life was the opposite of what it is now 5 years ago. I had countless friends that i saw so much i was often annoyed with them. I was in a successful band that toured . I had a beautiful girlfriend. I loved her so much that I did the ultimate taboo. Taboo is loves encore. Sold out MSG pulse strobe light mist coming in out of the heats fist, crowding the funded kick start to a new life intervened.  So I hoisted her onto my shoulders and she stuck her arms up and waved them and smiled, opened her hands, screamed for the music to unlock the heart with the key i tattoed onto my own, taking on her pain, taking the blame for when she decided to go, for i had chased her for years before i had a clue, or any right to know where she had. It was just a small place on the inside of her wrist.

Confusing. Abstract. Frustrating. Repeated imagery of the thing that opened the wound. As wounds are what us scribblers are bandaging with our words. All of us. Not only the troubled patients. Even though they are in fact the best. No matter how many books you have written, read, no matter how many degrees have been framed and put up behind those sitting at their office desks. It is They, who’s lives contain the duties of treating the trouble or numbing the hurt that always bears the most reliable witness. Experience. Few out there have both. The time and the requirements. My mother is one of them. She has done her time. But then, she also went on to obtain three master’s degrees, and has now a full practice as a therapist. Plus, is a contributing essayist on parenting, where monthly she, for free, writes great informal pieces for On top of all that, she has had to put up with me for thirty years on her own with a little help from my sister. I believe that has been her ultimate feat. She’s always stuck by my side, always had my back. Dad wasYou think mother grizzlies get pissed if you tinker, touch, mess with their cubs? Dude. Holy fuck. Moms are the shit. Dads are cool. They can be kind of cool, the coolest, or once may have been. And there are always exceptions. Mothers though, they matter how bad it’s gotten, specifically, I mean with a having a manic-depressive, bipolar son, Me. Hi.

About Brian Anthony Hardie

artist, musician, and poet from Portland, Oregon.

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