What Makes me Alive: a Manifesto

I have paranoia, sensory hallucinations, and insomnia, all at various intervals that sometimes collide. Psychiatrists call this schizoaffective bipolar I disorder, but I call it being human. Even when I feel depressed, and by that I refer to the mood, not the disorder. That is my diagnosis.

And sometimes I am happy, and a little elated. Even energized. I can walk 40 miles in one day. And I can speak to god, and appreciate his input. I once heard the founding fathers: Franklin and Jefferson and Adams and Washington, tho I missed out on hearing Hamilton. And I once beat a black guy in chess, which is quite a rare occurrence. And that is my diagnosis.

And sometimes I get angry, perhaps in the form of an outburst. I can be a little silly, perhaps goofy, and I have a penchant to smoke weed and abuse xanax. And I used to have trouble shitting, but that went away when I was 3. And that is my diagnosis.

And now I can’t stop writing, and feeling a little romantic, and a little less classic. And I enjoy too much food, especialy hypersweet tasting artifacts that I will now dub as “saccharine” flavored. And I am in the process of training myself to not depend on people, or food, or medication. But damn if weed doesn’t help, along with the occasional whiskey and beer. And that is my diagnosis. And prescription.

And I love to work out, especially when I wheigh more. And I won’t call myself fat anymore. And that is pyschosis. Or is disorder? Or disease? More better, let’s call it “behavior” as Thomas Szasz would say. And that is description.

And I have a penis, and a ball sack, and an asshole, as well as 10 digits on each hand and foot, and two arms, legs, and eyes. And a brain to perceive these phenomenons, and hair and flesh, and bone to protect it. And that makes me human.

And that is who I am. So fuck your diagnosis, and your pills, and your treatments that refuse to treat me. And that is what I am saying to you, mental hospital. And psychiatrist, and “therapist” that works for the state. And that is how I feel.

And yes, I am prick, with a heart, and a soul, and sometimes I can be gentle, and sometimes I like to fuck, and yes, I can be selfish, arrogant, and perhaps a little prideful, tho I won’t call myself a narcissist. And that is my personality.

And the more I think this thru, perhaps I am a little human, maybe even an animal, composed particles, derived from a big bang. And that makes me one with the universe.

And when I feel god, I feel safe and in love, with nothing but security. And this is my spirituality.

So fuck your religion, and fuck your philosophy, because I am a classic liberal, now defined as a libertarian, with a neoliberal heart, and perhaps the soul of a communist, tho I believe in the pure state of that ideology, and not the examples that have won. And that is my political beliefs.

And yes, this is to the world, to you, and to noone. And that is my message, and my audience, and perhaps, a reminder to myself. Because I’m not putting up with this shit anymore.

And no, this isn’t a suicide note, nor a death bed letter. This is a manifesto, called what makes me alive.

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About Michael Medlen

My name is Michael and during my free time I avoid having a day job. Strangely enough, this gives me the freedom to run this blog. I write just about anything that can be considered art. I also occasionally post articles that may or may not be relevant to the theme of this site. You’ve been warned.
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One Response to What Makes me Alive: a Manifesto

  1. Pingback: What Makes me Alive: a Manifesto – Flawed Masterpieces

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