Lately, I feel like I’m doing too much. My mind is pulling in too many directions simultaneously. As I type this, I’m standing at my kitchen counter with my oatmeal and coffee, pausing between sentences to spray the counter with Lysol. I’ve got five tabs open on my browser: two are AI assistants, two are separate email accounts, and the final one is Indeed.com (the only tab I should be focusing on, honestly).
Even that paragraph feels like too much. I’ve been extra lately. I have all these big ideas with starts that don’t get completed. By the way, “extra” is my slang term for bipolar hypomania. It teams up with ADHD to make me multitask a bunch of things that will probably end up in a folder somewhere, or in one of my five notebooks.
I should be enjoying my micro-manic episode with its ego boost and delusions of grandeur. Who doesn’t want to feel like a brilliant, creative, and technical visionary? This must be what it’s like to have self-confidence. Unfortunately, my self-awareness and knowledge of my mood disorder ruin the party, reminding me that I’m not as smart as I think I am, even if I’ve convinced some people otherwise.
After all, the laws of gravity dictate that everything that goes up must come down. The laws of gravity and psychiatry.
Thanks to everyone for bearing with me when I’m extra. I call it micro because it generally cycles out by 1 pm, and I return to feeling like useless human rubbish. I’m reminded of my lack of meaningful accomplishments, my dwindling bank account, and the mind-numbingly banal conversations with my food-stealing roommate. I’m too nice to tell him to fuck off because I know he’s a kind individual, just intellectually disabled. We all have our limitations. Sometimes I’m jealous of him because he can’t self-evaluate at the level I do. Honestly, I wish I could sit in a chair and stare at a wall for as long as he does. I get it, man. I’ve been on Zyprexa. I wrote a whole diatribe about it last year.
Anyway, if you know my style, I’m not just going to be a bummer and disappear until the next post. If this blog were the Ev Complaint Department on the internet, I doubt any of you who started reading years ago would still be checking it out. No one likes a constant bitch fest.
I wrote this to have something to bring to my remote therapy session in 45 minutes. It’s a positive that I even have one, that I’m even following through on anything to try to keep myself on the rails of functional life. In the past, I’d have dived into a plastic bottle of Evan Williams bourbon, or the warm embrace of benzodiazepines and heroin, to slow my roll to a more comfortable and manageable speed.
I had an illuminating psychedelic experience recently when someone I met on a dating app gifted me some LSD. I realized my life was just getting started. There are still indescribably wonderful things that could happen, especially with the new tools to make it possible, or at least easier. I almost checked out via intentional overdose in January over some chick I met in rehab and a crack habit, just before I started discovering what artificial intelligence could do to help realize my creative potential. Ah, “potential,” that little malignant twat of an idea, has been fucking me up for a good 20 years of self-disappointment.
This experience is why I will not take heroin — the risk of death is too high. I won’t do anything that’ll risk killing me, although I did slip up and get drunk a couple of weeks ago. The five-day hangover really turned me off that shit.
It would be too much like the Sublime episode of “Behind The Music,” where everything was looking up for the guy, his band was getting successful, and then he didn’t wake up from a heroin nod. I can’t stand that fucking band, but everything reminds me of rock ’n’ roll.
Not having any desire to die, whatsoever, is another positive, obviously.
So, it’s Wednesday, and I’ve already proposed a new AI bot, a serialized book, and made a whole shitload of instrumental music. I’m cringing at my ego for thinking it’s possible to manage all of that. Oh dear, thanks again to the innocent civilian bystanders of social media for bearing with me.
The final positive I’ll tack on the end of this: ChatGPT — My ADHD Assistant Supportive guide for ADHD education and management.
I want you to try the preliminary version because I’m not a hundred percent full of shit, here, just about 70%. Hey, at least I know it.
“At least I don’t hide it.” — “At Least the Dark Don’t Hide It,” Magnolia Electric Co.
