I had a meeting with a publisher for my memoir in Cape Town this past weekend. I should be glad, right? I am. I’m sure deep down inside I am. Maybe.
On the surface, fear of being judged bubbles. The thought of writing thousands of words about my manic depressive life shoots my anxiety levels way up. This is due to the fact that I did a whole lot of stuff I’m not proud of and there are days when I feel like my ability to write has gone with the wind. Okay, more like gone down the toilet. Questions about why I did certain things will come to the fore and I don’t have any answers for them. So, in short, I’m scared to write about a life that’s messy and dark and wild.
This stupid bipolar disorder giveth and taketh away at the worst of times. The bipolar gods never favour me.
I sit here, wallowing in pity, all because of worry.
I should be excited, like the rest of the people who support me.
But the disorder robs me of that too.