My name is Dan.  This is my blog.  I    am from Texas, but I    live in Florida, now.  I    am still hesitant to put my real info out here because of my job.  I    am a teacher.  In this day and age of progressivism, if I    were gay, transgender, black, or a communist that would be OK.  But I    am not any of those things.  I    am me.  I     am a Christian, a husband, a father, a son, and a brother, and I    am bipolar.  At least, I’m not schizophrenic, right?  That seems to be the final step on the stigma ladder.

My “people” have been persecuted since the beginning of time.  But that is not popular to say.  I    cannot point to a particular episode of notorious enslavement/genocide dedicated to my kind, but I    know that Auschwitz, among others, had a place for the men and women whose mind would not be quiet.  I    know that in America it was not so long ago that sharp spikes were thrust into soft brain tissue.  I    should do some research, but I    am a little afraid of what I    might find.

Right now I    am dancing with depressive tendencies.  I    want no pity nor will I    accept any from myself.  The pity party is always set for one person.  I    write this because I    think it is important to chronicle something in the raw moment of its occurrence.

First, I    do not wish to elevate, accentuate, or celebrate my situation.  There are those who suffer in ways I     cannot even imagine.  This is merely an account and an attempt to know myself better.

Depression for me sits in the jaw.  I    feel a tightness there that is surrounded by dull pain and emanating toxicity.  My mind begins to lie to me in so many ways that it is hard to keep the truth in focus.

One way is that it tells me that I    have fallen from grace.  I    was some spectacular human who graced the Earth with his presence, but now I    am a ridiculous shell playing at being that former self.  I    will never have the strength to be anything like it.  That is one lie that plays throughout my head.

“Hypocrite” spins wildly through my mind as I    imagine myself lacking the energy and fortitude to bring action to conviction.  Something will come up, and I    will fall short.  I    ask of others something I    am too weak and spineless to deliver.  This nebulous, castigating accusation rattles around my troubled psyche.

Another lie is that I    have let God down.  He did his best to train me up and offer a helping hand, but I    have fallen so low and become so pathetic that He no longer deigns it prudent to involve me in His affairs.

I    want to say important things.  I    want to write great things.  I    want people to know my name and respect it.  That is one side of what I    want.  I    also want to touch people’s hearts.  I    want the lost to know God- and His people to be encouraged, enlightened, galvanized and uplifted.  I    want to use my writing to serve Him.  That is my dream, and I    think it is a good one.  But how?  Stay tuned because I    will.