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Table of Contents

Autobiography Cancelled

Me attempting to save myself from despair, through the medium of writing.

Written: November 2013

Author: Ruben Fisher

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I'm not entirely sure what I'm doing with my life. So I'm writing my memoirs early.

I don't plan on committing suicide, or anything crazy – borderline ridiculous like that; I'm trying to 'find my art', so to speak. I'm trying to get under the hood of my own mind, and see why the anti-freeze just plain isn't working. It's a horrible feeling to feel you will never amount to anything, I had that feeling, have that feeling, and until I achieve this goal of finding my art, I will have that feeling. I have a raw, base need to communicate my ideas; and since leaving school and stopping all of the generic party lifestyle young people have, this need has come to the forefront of my psyche, and it's blocking everything I intend to do, whilst killing my motivation for anything I have to do.

To be frank, I'm not sure if this is my bipolar speaking. Or my schizophrenia, or my schizo-affective disorder. In fact, since my doctors have changed my diagnoses between those three conditions, at present I'm not even sure if I have one of those, or all three. Digressions aside, I just miss being genuinely happy to do something, and as I pound my keyboard and elucidate my feelings – I feel a little bit of that passion come back, that joie de vivre that makes life worth living, because without it I truly am an empty, husk of a man.

A crazy husk, at that.

I pride myself on being an open book, so let's get some things out of the way; I have issues. And I mean issues beyond my mental illness. I lie on a whim, and I don't enjoy doing it. To betray the trust of those you care about never brings anything in return but pain, and the pain is always more than you expect; it hurts to know you have hurt another, even when they haven't found out the source of the hurt (I.e, my lie.) yet, I do it anyway. I truly believe it is these destructive symptoms that cause me to spiral into these bouts of depression, as I refuse to let fate decide that just because I am predisposed to a minor psychosis I can no longer be the harbinger of my own suffering.

I reread my opening some-300-words, and I smile, a little.

I think I've found my art.

Autobiography cancelled.

Devtome Writers


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