Medicine Change, Part 2

Tuesday, May 8, 2012

I wrote this a few nights ago. I only showed one person. I've always prided myself on being honest with you, dear readers. So, here is a not so pretty side of Bipolar. And one very deep plunge into my depths...

I'm writing because I'm scared. I'm scared of my mind and where it might take me. I'm scared that I'll think things that I'll grow to regret later. I know that I won't be able to fall asleep, so I sit here, on my couch, with my dog at 2:42 am. I can't even eat my delicious coffee ice cream. I put it back in the freezer. Maybe I'll get my appetite back before it gets freezer burn. I'm watching Crossing Jordan- episode after episode trying to get lost in story lines, but I keep pausing it to pace back and forth around my dining room table and up and down my kitchen. Not sure if I could tell you what's going on. I'm playing solitaire too. Keeps my hands busy. My medicine change almost eliminated my desire to do anything. For almost two weeks I didn't want to do a thing. I didn't want to go anywhere, I didn't want to see anyone. I passed days and they were all the same. I've gotten better. I've had productive days and nights, busying myself with housework- groceries, laundry, cleaning, packing, errands. I listened to Italian CDs to teach myself today. But I'm achingly far from wanting to see people. I saw my family tonight, but they're my family. Thomas is Thomas. It takes everything I have to work myself up to Thursday nights to go to my bible study/life group. I love it. Love love love those people. But then I'm done. I can do precious little else. I can talk to a few people on the phone. But it takes guts for me to do the calling, and just as much to pick it up when it rings. My eyes want to cry right now but I won't let them. I know if I let them cry then I may not be able to move- I'll just quiver with snot and fear and probably have some sort of anxiety attack. Moby is sleeping so peacefully on his freshly washed blanket that I really don't want to do anything to disturb him other than pet his velvety soft ears and stroke his sleek ink coat and feel his warm and giant paws. Nothing good ever comes of me crying. It generally just gets me more worked up. So I'm trying not to cry. But wondering how I'm going to live with this is making my emotions tip the scales to being worked up. If I can't see people, how can I hold down a job? How am I ever going to get a job? I can barely get out of bed and do what I think I'm supposed to around the house. I feel useless. Moby and Thomas enjoy my existence, but I still question how much worth I really have to the world around me. No, I'm not planning on harming myself. I don't want that. I don't want to die. I just want to lead a life worth living. And I'm finding that I'm having a difficult time doing so. 3:11. 3:23. I am a disappointment unto myself. I want to go for a walk, but it's... the witching hour. I heard about it first in "The BFG"- a most excellent book by Roald Dahl. He called it the time when everyone was asleep, even grownups. But this grownup knows not to wander about a dark apartment complex in a brooding and depressed mood at the witching hour. I would not be called, at this moment, a woman with her wits about her. My devised solution- fresh air on my screened-in, second story porch. Ought to be safe enough. 3:56. Took care of my plants. I love taking care of my plants. I wish I had more plants. I'll get more after we move. There are some insane birds chirping away outside. There is no sign of sun. But they're just chirping away, making you experience this surreal bit where, for a brief flash, you wonder why the sun's not there. I also just spent 5 minutes of my life pulling a microscopic shard (I think glass) out of the bottom of my large toe on my left foot. I'm still afraid to go to bed. What if my brain keeps thinking??

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