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Imagination

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Once when my brother was manic he thought he was the smartest person in the world. I don’t think he did anything with this newfound knowledge; I think it probably just felt good to believe he was intellectually superior. He also did stuff like show up at people’s houses unexpectedly to collect long overdue debts and convince telemarketers to go out on dates with him. This is one of the reasons why people who are bipolar don’t want to take their meds; who wouldn’t want to feel invincible?

While I haven’t reached the heights of mania that he has, I have what could be considered delusions of grandeur. For example, ever since high school I have been convinced that I am going to be a famous writer some day. I would ask whoever I was with how they felt about the fact I was going to be famous–whether they minded that they would be in the limelight and whether they would feel threatened by my success.

I still believe this. I’ve read all the stuff that says that the J.K. Rowlings and Elizabeth Gilberts of the world are the exception rather than the rule, but I’m not really deterred by  it. I don’t usually admit this to people because it does sound a bit delusional, but it’s a nice reprieve from feeling like I suck.

And it’s a helpful delusion. Anyone who aspires to do something great has to believe the odds are in their favor. Otherwise, why try? It’s hard to walk that line between believing that you are destined for greatness and being manic, but people do it all the time. So why not me? I have decent balance.

In The Secret Life of Bees, Zach is a black kid who wants to be a successful lawyer in the South during the Civil Rights era. Lily tells him she’s never heard of a Negro lawyer. That you have to hear of these things before you can imagine them. He counters that you have to be able to imagine what’s never been.

I would take this a step further. Our imaginations are actually fairly limited; we can’t envision all of the possible outcomes. Perhaps I  won’t write some best seller, like I have always imagined. Perhaps success will happen in a completely different way. Someone could decide to make tennis skirts out of my patterns, for example. Or maybe it will be something else that I can’t conceive of from my limited viewpoint of the present.

I try to bring myself back to reality. Don’t get your hopes up. Maybe all you will accomplish is to help a few more people than you do through therapy–which would be worth it, too.

But I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: you can’t fail if you never stop trying.

Sensitivity

I am reading The Secret Life of Bees for book club, and I love it! I know it’s old, but in our last meeting we discussed which books made us wish we could spend more time with the characters, and one of the members mentioned this one. I can see why. I love all of the characters, too. Well, maybe not June so much. She’s a little too guarded for me. Although I wish I could be more like August, the matriarch of the sisters, I am actually more like May–the fragile one who feels other people’s pain too deeply. Not as deeply as she did, thank goodness. But more so than I would like sometimes.

On the one hand, I recognize that it is a gift to have such a keen sense of empathy. I know I have helped a lot of people because of it. But I am also easily thrown off balance when the people I care about are in pain–especially since I am also prone to depression and anxiety. I have always assumed this meant that I was weak. Fragile. Too sensitive.

I spent time with my brother this weekend–the only one of the four siblings who does not have a mood disorder. In talking to him, it was clear that he does not experience his feelings as intensely as I do. He does not get his feelings hurt very often. He is better able to maintain distance from family drama, and his advice really is to tell them to suck it up.

I envy him for this, but I cannot be him. I can only be me. I feel things intensely. My feelings get hurt easily. And when someone is in pain, I feel what they feel and try to help them, even if it hurts me.

But rather than berate myself for it, I am learning to accept that this is who I am. We all have different vulnerabilities. Some people may be prone to heart disease. Other people have diabetes. I am a hyperempath with depression and anxiety. Therefore, I have to be sure to take care of myself in certain ways: make alone time a priority, set boundaries, and be more selective about who I spend time with.

I used to joke that I’m not trying to save the world–just the people that I meet. But perhaps I will have to narrow down my scope in my life-saving efforts, too.