Okay, here is the problem with me following the same path as Vincent Van Gogh. He suffers from legitimate mental illness whereas my mental health issues seem far more controllable. He and I were moving along quite swimmingly in our isolationist feelings and loneliness, defeated by father’s constant disapproval and mother’s distant connection, when he became so unable to cope that he failed to make any meaningful relationships in his lifetime and I got married and had kids. Of course I purchased some profoundly helpful psychotherapy along the way which he could not, but really now, nearing the end of his story, dear Vincent is eating dirt, drinking kerosene from his lamp and squeezing the paints from his tubes into his mouth. In all my disappointing life events thus far all my thoughts about dissing myself in vile ways were never acted upon. I have never felt so low as to actually drink kerosene.
Vincent is in an asylum generally wishing he had people that mattered to him in his life, because much of his family long ago distanced themselves, and his one loyal brother got distracted by marriage and impending parenthood. Vincent is diagnosed with legitimate mental dysfunction, but suddenly he is also generating fantastic paintings on a daily basis after decades of studying, drawing, and painting.
I really hoped, unreasonably, that the similarities between Vincent and myself would last. That way, I too, might imagine that my future has me becoming a genius. Sadly his genius was not recognized during his lifetime, at least not in the story thus far, so following him to the height of his success while he was alive wouldn’t have gotten me too far anyway. If it turns out I am a genius and I don’t know it, I’ll be gone before I get to cash in on all the perks.
Looks like I am stuck with my own version of my own life once again, destined to be me. Living vicariously through this massive biography is good for the summer but soon I will have to get back to my real life.