Monthly Archives: November 2014


I’m in a transitional period.

That’s a good phrase for anything if you are having problems in life. No job? Transitional period. Understanding of what you believed in caving in on you? Transitional period. Swapping between form and inner perspectives on life and its happenings? Transitional period.

I’m nearing the end of a manic cycle. I’ve got quite good at identifying these now. My manic cycles are usually much much shorter than my depressive ones. I expect my depressive cycle to begin as early as tomorrow with where my head is at now.

I’ve actually been looking at some counseling options here in town. I don’t really have the money for a good counselor anyway. My experience with the “economic” styling is far from good. I had a counselor who suggested preposterous ideas to me. She encouraged me to hone my remote viewing skills as well as prove that people were made of rainbows. Now, this may seem like jokes, and maybe they were. She certainly didn’t laugh. And it certainly wasn’t funny.

But, for such anecdotal reasons, I’m often skeptical to go to a counseling place I can actually afford. I was thinking I could go when I returned to school in the Spring, but with the issues going on, I’m going to postpone my return, probably get another job and hate my life a little more. I keep telling myself it will be ok, and I don’t even know what ok is.

“Grant, you’re young, you got a near full life ahead of you.”

Easily one of my most hated things to hear. Very near the top of the list of things people shouldn’t say to me. Age and remainder of life have nothing to do with my issues at the moment. If they do play a factor at all it’s in wondering how the fuck I’m going to keep at it for that long. Especially when you can say the same thing to the person who said it to you if they are unhappy with their lives, they always have an excuse.

So, it just seems they want to say bullshit they don’t believe themselves, because that’s our society. We want to help, but not really. Sometimes we don’t know how to help, that’s ok, I get that, I cut lots and lots of slack for those people. I don’t know how to help others. I still try my damndest and if I offend them, which I know I have, I try to catch that and apologize.

THIS. This is bipolar. Not knowing what you want your own life to be. It changes as fast as you can commit to the previous idea or purpose. You’re happy and full of energy for a few days, then in anguish and lament the following week. It’s different for a lot of people. And most people can have it and not know. Most people think that bipolar is something of a different nature.

All that aside. Looking through my efforts. My experiences, my drive, my reasons. Few things have remained consistent. My hope for Man. And making the effort to be the change I wish to see in the world. I guess that doesn’t leave much room for friends. It doesn’t leave much room for relationships. It doesn’t leave much room for school or aspirations within a field.

It leaves only unhappiness. It leaves only things to destroy the hopes of the other things. That’s my fault in some regard, I’ve harbored these thoughts without constructing something useful for so long, it’s hard not to hate. I hate that I simply hate people and am driven to be at their beck and call.

That’s my consistency. That’s my story right? I’m not here to live a life and be happy and cool. My purpose, it’s to do my damndest to better the world. I couldn’t tell you why. I’m deranged. Most people don’t seem to give a legitimate damn about their fellow man.

I do. And it hurts.

I risk sacrificing healthy nutrition for myself to get some toys for kids to donate. That’s not necessary. But the thought of a kid getting something, and they have so very little…

Those children, their minds can still be shaped. I believe they are our future. Not in the way most people do. Not in that they take over when we start to wither and then pass the torches down to their next generation. No. I mean their minds are still fresh, full of curiosity and wonder. They should be so lucky to cling to ideals of a perfect world, that they might eventually try to achieve it.

But, for that to happen. So many things have to line up. And though I doubt they ever will, and have such a great magnitude of that. I still am unable to abandon my hope. So, I must push forth, being the change I wish to see in the world (whoever said that, I have a hard time improving it).

It would be healthier for me to not think this way. I know. I have tried. I could be happy. But, there’s gotta be someone looking out for the future, otherwise we don’t have sustainability. And if I can remember that’s me. Both in manic and depressive episodes. In every action and thought I try to work out, if I can keep that in mind, I at least have purpose.

To doing the impossible, to being only human in order to be only better than human.



This is an issue I feel I have a lot of the time and might be easier to write about.

Right now, as per usual, I should be laying here, eyes closed, listening to the serene hum of my mind putting itself at ease drifting towards rest. I’m not, needless to say. As for why, that very answer often eludes me.

Often, something perturbs me. In this instance, I have a vague grasp of it, much like one would try to cup water trickling from a faucet. It’s something loose and fluid, not too well shaped or with a clear purpose. Tonight, I want to question who I am.

Who am I?

Name is William Grant Murray, son of Neva and Hugh Murray. Probably an idiot child if it weren’t for my birthday postponing my education for nearly a full year. From my best recollection, my father sought mostly to provide a future for me while also making sure I spent enough time with him, by his side in whatever form to properly rear me as it were. My mom, a worrier since I can remember, was always strict and if I would misbehave would sit me at the table, scoot my chair in a bit too rough (it would briefly and slightly wind me) and tell me to wait there til my father got home.

At an early level in school it was indicated I was smart. Something my parents had done their best to cultivate, I remember clearly. But my mind would wonder. I don’t remember any of the assignments, I remember lots of boredom. Through the 3rd grade I often just drew cartoons on my homework. But, I still remained a consistent academic performer. I awaited the class day every week for gifted and talent in elementary, where real challenge and interest stood. I remember being fascinated with my classmates in there, they knew a lot of things that I didn’t, but everything they said, I did my absolute best to retain. I still have a good amount of it up in the old noggin. Maybe that’s why I’m “smart”.

Always, I stood in awe of these people, only characters to me, and never felt that I was on their level, much to everyone’s insistence that I was. In the 4th grade, my father had his accident. Opened a door to a many varied experience as well as one of stress, torment, confusion, and emotional abuse. I acted out. A lot. In class after spending nights crying I would just sleep. Mr. Folds (4th grade teacher) would send everyone to their bathroom break and leave me in the room after checking with me before hand. When everyone was gone, I would pull my head up and just stare at the things around the empty room. Even then, I can recall wondering about purpose and normality. How many of these kids would experience something painful soon? How many already had? Individuality meant we would all show it differently. Of course I had friends I liked to talk to more than the others. Those friends were typically in GT as well.

Still, I wasn’t on their level, now in fact I was measurably behind, grades slipping, a lack of concern for homework setting in. A mom not at home regularly for me to do reading assignments or much of anything. I spent a lot of time at the neighbors, I slept in a wicker chair or in the guest bedroom sometimes, but it was frequently hot and I didn’t like it in there because the acoustics when I would start crying. They were wonderful people though. I hope they’re doing ok now. I had other people step up to try to help in the academic department for completion of assignments. People from the church and things like that. One family had a daughter in high school preparing for college and she was always really nice to me, she would let me play her NES when I went over there if I finished and we had already eaten dinner.

But, even with all the assistance, there was a lot of time at the hospitals, then at the rehab/nursing home. Then no more rehab. It all went by so fast. I remember a lot of things, I don’t even recall the order they happened in. I remember my family coming down to be with us after the accident. I remember my cousins lined up in a sort of hospital lobby, waiting for news. I remember adoring Patrick, who was reading Lord of the Rings books. I remember on occasion being out there alone and pulling chairs together to swing between them to expel my cooped up energy. Until I slipped out from them once and slammed the back of my head into the floor. I remember the doctors took me into some sort of office to show me pictures of equipment and explain things to me to evaluate if I could see my father. I remember then being escorted to him. Not knowing or understanding what a coma was.

Seeing him lying there was a terrible feeling. It was both horrifying, him looking like he was dead, and relieving, knowing he wasn’t. I said hello to him. Heart rate shot up. My mom crying grabbed me and said how much dad loved me and that even his coma couldn’t stop that…

Maybe all these things I made up. I don’t even know anymore. My brain feels so gone at this point. And I just keep learning. I can’t talk about my dad right now, those memories are much more clear than I realized and also a lot more painful. He was a good man he was. That’s all I need to rely on for now.

Identity. Mine was lost when my childhood was stolen. When, as a kid, my dad was not taken from me, but put beneath me in terms of capability, in a way, I took care of him. I never saw myself as the smart kid until looking back on things. I began to see it in the year after my dad’s accident. I scored a perfect score on the state TAKS (or whatever it was then). Only two of us had done it. I still remember the other girl’s name too. I remember her pretty well in fact. I remember it being announced that two perfect scores happened
and our teacher wanted us to stand if we thought it was us. I didn’t stand. Not for a long while. She kept insisting that she didn’t see both of us standing. After most of the class was standing or had begun to sit down because it wasn’t them, I stood. “There they are!”

I remember the rush of pride and confidence I had. My face probably as red as a rose. I sat down after the round of applause for myself and Kayla. A couple friends patted me on the back. The rest of the year wasn’t so bad, I had a friend, Vincent, I started to be pretty good friends with.

That year 9/11 did happen. Of course at the beginning of the year. I remember that pretty clearly. Mostly confusion and concern with all of the adults. I slept in my mom’s bed twice shortly after, afraid for some reason that there would be further attacks and my dad wouldn’t be there to help protect me. I was smart, but numbers/math/logic was where I really could beat anyone I found out as we started to handle signed integer operations in the 5th grade. I was the only one catching on in GT, and every now and then, my GT teacher would just pull me out of class to work on an assignment with all of my attention, she’d offer a soda or something as a bribe, it usually worked. She talked to me about what was going on and things like that. Sort of a role model amongst teachers, she’s what I think teachers should strive to be. She knew the issue wasn’t in my abilities, but in my drive and emotions. If I had not been in GT, I would probably have had more issues.

Throughout growing up, I began to emulate certain things others did that I liked. Still do. Classic conditioning as it were. Just recently, I have picked up shouting in text with exclamation marks instead of using an abundance of capital letters. I do this so much that for a while I had to wonder, how much is my original thought, and what’s leftover copy from trying to emulate somebody?

I was almost always a nice kid. One kid, my childhood best friend was pretty mean to various kids. And I would often join him in his snide remarks, even though it kind of hurt to do so. After one cub scout camping trip to little rock, we got in a “moss fight” and he threw moss at someone who was intellectually deficient. Retarded. However you know it, just know them as people. And I made the mistake of joining him. Immediately, it felt wrong. He cried. I got angry at my friend, and told him to knock it off. He wouldn’t. He hit me, I hit him, we fought, kids fight. Kyle still cried. Someone was alerted nearby and we were ushered off to the showers.

My friend was stubborn, lying about what happened. I came clean right away and revealed everything. I felt so bad. I didn’t think I could ever be ok with myself again. Maybe that’s when I decided bullying was not cool, that very moment I was one and couldn’t stand to be. He wouldn’t shower off, he was scared someone would come in. I volunteered to watch out for him and be his “guard”. I had to help him get some shampoo, and talk to him to keep him ok. I used that time to apologize a couple times. I remember telling him I didn’t know why I did it. And he just kept saying it wasn’t very nice. Which, it really wasn’t.

I begun to harbor anger towards my other friend after that incident and within the year I stopped requesting to see him entirely.

I was just a kid, I know. But I let someone else’s decisions dictate my actions, even when I didn’t feel good about them. A lesson that’s impossible to forget. Maybe that’s why I help people now. I don’t know. Your guess is as good as mine.

At this point, identity is irrelevant, in a culture where individuality is praised over some things that are good in general, such as a solid baseline for material to be learned, your identity is just what you make it. Which, in its truest essence, is what it is. Should I be concerned that I laugh a certain way tailored after someone I admired? no. Should I be concerned that I picked up on a word someone said, and used it a lot because it sounded cool? No, not really. Or what about now? My recent example, is using an exclamation more often going to ruin or better my world? Nope. It doesn’t matter.

I didn’t always see myself as the smart kid. Now, maybe I am. Enough people believe in me, that it must be true to some extent. I have scores of evidence to show that. Maybe I’m still naive and ignorant of some things, but that’s not bad, so long as I am open to learning something every day.

My identity? In the end it’s what I want I guess. What I want is to be a guy solving problems for people. I want happiness and peace. Often even sacrificing my own. I have greed, lust, envy, or wrath on occasion, but those must be pushed aside for better avenues of exploration. I’m Grant, and I want you to know that I’m an alright guy, cause it’s high time I knew that.