An Absence of Passion

Passion: 1) any powerful or compelling emotion, such as love or hate.

6) a strong or extravagant fondness, enthusiasm, or desire for anything.

The Steelers lost Sunday. Normally I would have been a complete wreck by the end of the game. I probably would have been in a total funk for several days. During the game I would have thrown objects, such as small children and coffee tables, at the television. My language would have been enough to embarrass a Merchant Marine sailor, and would have included made-up curse words (e.g. "fingelflooker", "fudgybork", "pisswhiskers", etc). I would have whipped my Terrible Towel around with such force that small animals would have been sucked up into the vortex I created. And Heaven forbid that the Towel hit you, it would pull an eyeball straight out of your face (and don't think we're taking you to the ER until the game's over!). In past days, I would have wanted to go out and vent my frustration after a loss like Sunday's. Maybe drive to the city and murder a hobo. Rob a 711. Pick up a crack whore and drive around with her for a while.

But I wasn't even that upset. I was mildly disappointed. Don't get me wrong, I WANTED my Steelers to win. I have bled black and gold since I was old enough to understand football. I can clearly remember the Immaculate Reception and every single Steelers Super Bowl victory. But something was different this year...NO PASSION.

The Daytona 500 is coming up on February 20th. Normally I'd be wearing my Tony Stewart underoos and racing helmet around the house. I'd be making engine noises while walking in the Mall, squealing my tennis shoes at every turn. Walking directly behind people to increase speed. Holding secret Matchbox car races in my room. Tying a 2 X 4 to the front bumper of the Soccer Mom Special (my mini-van) so that I could spin out slower vehicles on the highway.

And yet none of those things are going on this year. I haven't even checked out NASCAR.com to see which drivers switched teams, who has new sponsors, etc. I'm not even in any NASCAR fantasy leagues, something I usually enjoy a great deal. Oh I'll watch the race...make no mistake about that. But it'll be different this year....NO PASSION.

My lack of passion has affected every area of my life. I'm not even interested in self-massage anymore. I've tried aromatherapy candles, Barry White music, talking dirty to myself, and special lotions...anything to set the mood. But still nothing.

Passion drives us as human beings. It has fueled every great discovery, every amazing and life-changing invention. It has won wars and preserved freedom. It is what took us to the Moon. What cured Polio. What brought down the Berlin Wall. Nothing remarkable or significant ever happens in this world until a person or group of people has the passion to get it done.

Sure, you also need energy. You also need intelligence. You also need resources. But take passion out of the equation and all of these things are of little use. There's no drive, no direction, no focus.

What are we without passion? We're sacks of skin and bones, simply going through the motions of living. Bad actors in a horrible play. We can try faking it, but it's usually apparent to all (unlike my orgasms, which I fake quite convincingly).

Where did my passion go? I could simply blame bipolar disorder, maybe whine around about how it robbed me of my passion. But truthfully, I lost it. I allowed life to beat it out of me. I'm to blame. And only I can get it back. I'm like Austin Powers looking for his Mo-Jo. Like Snoop Dogg looking for his hoes (Where da hoes at?). Like Justin Bieber looking for puberty.

What is it that holds me back? I think fear. I've become afraid to get passionate about anything for fear of being bitterly disappointed. Or for fear of failing, something I've elevated to a high art form. If I drift through life without passion, I may not enjoy things, but I also don't suffer a lot of crushing defeats. To have passion is to risk. It makes you put yourself out there. Nothing worthwhile is ever accomplished without passion.

And so, I need to get passionate about reclaiming my passion. It's been gone for a long time. If I ever get it back, look out world. I could be a force to be reckoned with.

Like A Phoenix??

"I have a grip on reality. Just not this particular one." ~ Source Unknown

At various and sundry times during periods of manic behavior I have likened myself to a phoenix. Yes, a phoenix, that mythical, graceful firebird who builds a nest of twigs after a lifespan of 500 to 1,000 years, ignites and burns to ash, and then is gloriously reborn. The cry of the phoenix was said to be like a beautiful song. In truth, during those times I was more like a mentally challenged loon who annoyed the other birds for a while by continuously flying in a circle, all the time sounding off like a vulture with a beak impediment. This loon would then fly directly into a sliding glass door at a high rate of speed and ricochet unconscious into a flaming barbecue grill, where he would unceremoniously burn until an annoyed grillmaster would fling his charcoaled carcass off to the side.

Unlike the phoenix, there will be no miraculous rebirth for this loon. But, after a period of time our smoldering friend will begin to move, then walk, and eventually fly again. And in his eyes he will be very phoenix-like and his song will be magical, at least to his own ears. But inevitably he will crash and burn again.

This has been the story of my life for the past six years. I detailed some of my adventures on The Prodigal Glenn blog should you ever wish to read about them. And if you read through those old blog posts, you could pretty easily tell what phase of the bipolar cycle I was in at any given time.

It's not a cycle that I wish to keep repeating. I've allowed bipolar disorder to rob me of many things. It's a vicious illness, and yet it can be managed. Somehow over the past few months I seem to have found that middle ground (at least for quite a bit of the time) between the highs of mania and the lows of depression. Or maybe I've just become accustomed to the lows of depression and now deem that to be my normal state. I don't actually know. And I'm not going to make any great claims of discovery and/or self-enlightenment. I've had to dine on too many of those in the past (eating crow as it were, to continue the bird theme!).

I know that I should be freaking out. I separated from the Government in late October after almost 28 years of Federal service and have applied for a disability. I haven't had any income since mid-November when I withdrew the money from my TSP (401K) account. I've been flat broke since December 20th, when I had to spend my last $160 for copies of medical records from Butler Hospital. My checking account is overdrawn, my cellphone has been shut off, and my auto insurance has been cancelled. I should be as nervous as Michael Vick at a Humane Society convention, but I'm not.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not turning cartwheels and singing the Hallelujah chorus. But I'm surviving. Somehow. Someway. And I'm hoping that when this bird gets his wings back, he'll be content to be a simple robin. Not the majestic phoenix or the out of control loon, just a happy little robin.

And yet to me, being that happy, steady little robin would be a greater miracle than being the mythical phoenix. Although with my luck, there will be some rotten little kid out with his brand new Red Ryder BB gun that day. I'll just have to pray that he shoots his eye out.

HONEY, I'M HOME

Yes, the rumors of my death were greatly exaggerated. As Miracle Max (Billy Crystal) says in The Princess Bride, "There's a big difference between mostly dead and all dead. Mostly dead is slightly alive." I'll cop to being mostly dead for the past several months.

I'm kind of like Conan O'Brien...back doing the same thing, just with a different stage and format. What is it that draws one back to blogging? Novelist Leo Rosten said that "Every writer is a narcissist. This does not mean that he is vain; it only means that he is hopelessly self-absorbed." Not sure how true that is. All I can say for sure is that in my case I just plain missed doing it. Though some of what I wrote was upsetting to others to read, it was in fact very cathartic to me.

This new blog will be a bit more hard-edged and a bit less politically correct. Though I will not type a single word with the intent of offending someone. It's just that I had reached the point with The Prodigal Glenn where I was overthinking every word I typed for fear of offending someone. This time around I intend to write fearlessly. About bipolar depression. About relationships. About drinking. About family. About spirituality. About life in general. And if you happen to find yourself offended by something here, feel free to leave and not come back. I don't care. My days of letting other peoples' opinions of me define me are over. Not to seem ignorant, but if I can't write honestly, what is the point of having a blog?

Along those lines, I will be moderating comments. This doesn't mean that I won't publish comments that disagree with something that I write. Far be it from me to be that egotistical. I just want to be able to screen comments that are simply mean-spirited slams on me, potshots taken anonymously and meant only to injure.

I encourage each of you to become followers, and I'll get a Facebook Fan Page up and running soon. In the meantime I'll be busy readying my first actual post. I hope that you will join me often, that you will feel free to comment, and most of all I hope that you find laughter, love, and truth on these pages. May God richly bless you all.