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Saturday, Sept. 13, 2003 - 10:34 p.m. CATCH 22 I read Joseph Heller's Catch 22 in high school. In a nutshell, it is a story that illustrates the absurdity of war. I forgot most of the plot, albeit twisted and hard to follow, but I do remember what "Catch 22" meant. "Catch 22" was kind of a code-word for what it took for an airman in the war to be grounded for being crazy. Under "Catch 22," to be considered crazy, you had to seek help. However, if you sought help, you could not be crazy--after all, a mentally ill person is not rational enough to know he needs help. Thus, the "Catch." I met with my old roommate today at LSU, tailgated with him for a little while, and went to the game. The first thing he said to me was that I lost a lot of weight. This is quite true. In Houston, I was so bombed out on medication due to the psychotic psychiatrists treating me, I suffered from hypothyroidism. My face was loaded with acne and I put on 35 pounds. In fact, that mad doctor treating me had me on near lethal doses of Lithium and was actually giving me medication to counteract the side effects of all the other medication he was giving me. My roommate told me I should "sue that bastard." I would if I could--not for the money, mind you, but in order to save anyone else from being treated by that lunatic. My roommate then told me that he did not believe I was bipolar. I excuse his lack of knowledge of mental illness, but what he said did dawn something on me. It was not until after my diagnosis that everything went downhill for me. Before I was diagnosed, or sought any therapy in the first place for that matter, I had a great high-paying job, I was moving up in my firm, and people, by and large, thought I was a nice guy. Sure, I got a bit intense at times, but by no means was I clinical. In terms of my interpersonal relationships, I just appeared shy and hard to get to know. All this from a guy who saw me right before my therapy, and then right after. Of course, I still have no doubts that I am bipolar. I have four bipolar first cousins, and I can clearly identify my mood changes. I display all the classic symptoms. It is just that I have always been a genius at hiding them. However, whereas most bipolars hit rock bottom before someone else hauls them to the hospital, I was the one who sought help. I was the one who looked for an explanation for the holes in my life. No one told me that I should seek help. In fact, many might have argued that I was the most rational person they knew. Well, as any rational person, my goal was to find the meaning of life. I had questions, and I wanted them answered. To make a long story short, a story I will share with you sometime later on, I thought had I found that answer. And when I declared that I found it, I was also declared bipolar. It seems fitting that the meaning of life should be buried amidst the quagmire of meaningless insanity. That is why so many people are clueless as to life's meaning. They will search and search, and if they are successful at deluding themselves into believing that they found life's meaning, they will die so peacefully believing a lie. The paradox is, if they did know life's meaning, they probably could not die peacefully. Frankly, after my turbulent experience, I could not care less. I will die peacefully, not because I believe a lie, but because I am on medication. During grandiose mania, my brain has felt its unlimited potential--man's unlimited potential, for that matter--and I am not impressed by it. I know what it is like to have a brain that is faster than any computer. I know what it is like to have the power to create anything on a mere whim. It is the most beautiful yet the most terrifying experience neurochemically imaginable. What I now seek in life is not its meaning. I know with certainty that such a quest is a lost cause. Instead, I want to be happy. I want to make others happy. However, life appears to be limited on how much happiness it can offer. I realize have gotten on a serious philosophical tangent here, and to most people, much of this entry may not make any sense. I do not care, mostly because I am tired and want to go to sleep. I am also tired of catering to people too stupid to understand me. Maybe this fatigue will lead to the insanity that will ground me and save me from fighting in the war. Or maybe, like in Catch 22, I would have to fight even if I were insane. Unfortunately, whether I were grounded or not, something tells me I would be forced to fight either way. |